By Roy Doughty
Written: 2/17/07

The mid-morning sun is delightfully voluminous,
Without being loud, a gleeful destroyer
Of attachments to the past, wherein ancient
Metaphors come to a rusting halt,
Like a vast ship beached, its hulking mass
Streaked by the phosphorous lime of roosting birds.
But the sun is a sailor, too,
A light that makes the dew
A sea for the eyes,
And also for that inward happiness,
Which sails beyond the eyes,
In the long boats, skipping, skipping atop the waves —
So many sapphire baubles, so much freedom,
So much delight in the movement of our being,
So much, as we sit, at rest, in our quiet yard,
Watching this movement skittering over grass,
That sends us out to claim a newborn land.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.