No night, I’m thinking
(willing, really), lasts
forever, endless.
But my confidence
flutters then falters.
What if I’m wrong?
Just then, before dawn,
day breaks early and
undreams the darkness,
banishes black that
ripens to eggplant,
fades to indigo.
A solitary
sunbeam’s hatchet honed
cleaves wide somber dome,
spills veins of amber,
honey smeared scarlet
over-ripened, bursts.
A vast aquarelle
unleveed shimmers,
a lake is born and
mountain range cutouts,
mirrored but mottled
on breeze dimpled plain.
What do you think?