Let this be the least of us
over an early farmer's field in gushing rays
of gold and bronze, nor rise in the vigilant
eyes of a girl set adrift in the middle of her heart.
Instead, it nailed itself to a pale shard of blue, allowed
thunderhead to pass without as much as a vaportop
glance because this was the moment it comes to be stilled.
As in every year, even the most consummated must retreat
within the flames. Let radiance confer divinity another day.
For this moment is the time of unbuilt butterflies that have not
yet fashioned wings for skies that have not yet taken hue.
Let this be the least of us. From this morning on, sing
sweetly that the day remains to paint your song with light
in fruiting boughs. From this morning on, promise
the mute stars that all you gather will be thrown against
the pressing dawn, poured in the honeyed breath of children
as they rouse from dreams they never share with another soul.
From this morning on, let this be the least of us.
Let each day offer less and less, as the time to offer
grows long and wide. Let this be enough to sustain
our days into the foreshortened bliss that summers
our skin an ocean away. Only then will the sun move
among the ruins again. Only then will the sun truly endure.
December 21, 2004