Looking to the edge
Of the dawn-tinged mountain tops’
Cliffed flaming skyscape,
The ladder to the brow of the morning star
Leans against the wall between
The night and day of a new year.
I peak over the sky, blue as the part
Of a candle flame that entrances
A child in Easter Sunday’s Grace
Before what’s thanked for is consumed
For weight toward Earth’s center.
And I see it’s the same primordial pool
Of fire and flame and lust that does
Dervish whirls from a screen door
To a backyard. April is draining
It’s pain of birth, thaw and rust
As though the hinges
Of soil opened to houses
In the enclosed bark of trees.
