Let first-light come,
rain-glittered motion
of greening leaves
like brass plaques
on a Giving Tree—
each child, each gift,
unmasks a smile.
 
Let first-light reveal
night’s hidden ruins
in their antique beauty.
Let mistakes befriend 
their poets.
 
Let first-light avert
the predicted civil war,
let anger be argued 
to handshake; peace be
the common denominator.
 
Let the widening light
creep feline to the satisfied purr
of a new day, the time-lapse
slow of blooming,
the dream hiking
toward vision
like a train bursting
from a tunnel.
 
Let all colors wake
and go forth. Let us erase
the wilderness of the page.
 
Let love be iridescent.
                        

No fool, I pack a pencil and notebook
everywhere like a spider always
waiting for taut lines to jiggle
in a phrase of struggle, a delicious
connotation; like a horse floating
from meadow fog without sail, perhaps
without wings or Dawn’s burning invitation
to wake from the past and rejoice—
when silence possesses the word silence.
 
Immediately, I nest among twigs
to scribble their birthing patterns,
not to lose them among mistaken cares
of elegy. I am not a famous 
poet who forgets the epiphany
on his way home to write it down.