Absent dawns age days into
weeks where nights are nothing more than drowsy blinks
I inquire of the crows if the sun has made a sickbed upon which he’s now lain
But they gossip no more in the fruit trees they haunt and hills they stalk on tempted talons
Each blue hour I rise with eyes deprived of an iris’ reflection
Waiting to witness the Horizon Song in hues of memories my feet have made
Where dawning promises slowly spread the illusion of wildfire atop moon-cold slate eaves
And secrets of the earth are momentarily revealed in hieroglyphs of seeds and veins of leaves
But rain soaked screens only give a windblown sway to the expansive grey
As the skeletal trees claw their way through the fade to an even
I inquire of the crows if the sun has made a sickbed upon which he’s now lain
But they gossip no more in the fruit trees they haunt and hills they stalk on tempted talons
Each blue hour I rise with eyes deprived of an iris’ reflection
Waiting to witness the Horizon Song in hues of memories my feet have made
Where dawning promises slowly spread the illusion of wildfire atop moon-cold slate eaves
And secrets of the earth are momentarily revealed in hieroglyphs of seeds and veins of leaves
But rain soaked screens only give a windblown sway to the expansive grey
As the skeletal trees claw their way through the fade to an even
deeper haze
E.A. O'Connell
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