Sky Kinged

The sun has moved south

into a bush,

a rose golden blush

escapes, expands,

as if the sea

could be upstaged.

Shadows own the hour.

A slivered bamboo

banners a silhouette

in a wind so old

the birds ignore it

from the horizon wire.

The end of a day, a song, a plate on the table,

reflects the fog muscled light

of a yet starless sky.

The west is a catch all

of fates, furies, and futures.

What turns we take

to spin the globe.

In the year now gone

we moved closer to the cliff.

Our retinas retain each set,

the promise of another

is something we dare.

Will SchmitComment