The son
searches blindly in the thick shadows,
timid and thin, his alabaster skin
fingering rays for warmth
where matters with heat may penetrate,
he lingered along
to feel the shapes and qualities
worth illuminating.
The son
gives off too much
light of himself,
but cools his burning core when worn
down from spinning out ideas, worries like water
for clouds.
Grey lightens the pressure of beauty in shades
of dilution.
The son
sets his gaze on the fine line,
balanced between now and then
an emerald spark, sometimes called Epiphany
flashes forward before
the embers burn themselves out
and all that fixation
loosens the belt of Venus
able to breath aloof in dusk.
The son
becomes sure
of being risen and having been
roused, only to be caught
in a brief glare, he spots
glimmers of where love
lies and may be
beyond her dissolution.
The son
will to morrow, who is
peaking at noon,
falls warmer than
any moon who wanes
when the world was said
to be done.
Painting by Cornelis Lieste [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
