Window Of Time: Early Morning. A Poem

Like a sash it opens just enough

to let the mist saunter down and in.


This morning breaks and the valley

receives its due covering.


A hovering of this evanescent spirit,

spread in and though the crowd.


Diverse fog splitters rising toward

the heavens, trees reaching for the sky.


I wish I were 200 feet tall.

I would kick the midget clouds


and brush my open palms

along the crown of oaks.


I would lay in the meadow

and make fog angels.


I would summon as much childhood

imagination as I could and play a while.



And I wonder if God would be sitting on a bench, watching, smiling at the childlike freedom.

Transposition: The Heat Of Light Has Its Effects.


The cloudscape

scraped the sides,

and wayward beams

invaded the lows.

A push down

and in.

Strands of yellow

light weaved

where fog

and mist

were wrested.

The quilted air

pried from

the sculpted knolls

was lifted by

a yellow oscillation.

Together, they were

a secret.

Separate, they are

a mystery.


Genesis 1:3



Photo courtesy of Jessica Szopinski. Guatemala