Few things are more poetic than the descent
of a swiftly setting sun, or how it leaves
in its wake a trail of smudged colors;
royal purples and rosy pink palettes
that on any other surface might seem odd.
Not tonight, not this.
Few things are as beautiful, except the way
each star races the others, eager
to find its place first on the dark canvas,
hoping that tonight you will look to the heavens
and see it shining brighter than the rest
and name it for me.
There is also the way the sky and water meet,
touching hands briefly, flirting over the horizon.
Suddenly we can reach down toward the sky.
Picking up pieces of blue liquid heaven
the mirror breaks. We open our fingers
and magic transforms the color to clear
as each molecule separates, dropping back
seamless and transparent. The tide ebbs,
and as it falls away creates a dance
as wave and sand part ways, swirl,
twirl, a watery waltz drawn by the moon.
Of course we join in.
There is one creation more moving,
more wondrous than the milky way come to rest
on the standing water in the road by your home,
or the way the fireflies reflect in your eyes.
This is a word, a missive, the lilting song
which finds its mark once aimed.
The steady reverberations of laughter
peeling, driving the nearby birds to silence
as they listen in curiosity.
It is spoken poetry that allows us to have
dominion over creation, mastery over galaxies,
and the ability to love.