Daffodil Dawn

All is silent, save the seagul's cry. Somber blue,
the gray eyed morn sallow sleeps upon the sea,
aross the charcoal sky.
But east, eastward winks, blinks and bends
its splendid brow. Its creases colored,
crested clear, wrinkles wreathed with pink
and blushing red, rose red rush of waking,
shaking off that sacred sleep.

Yellow yawn, canary calm. Stretching
dressing, daffodil dawn.
An instant stayed,
colors fade and dim;
All, all things wane, waning wait, await,
the full and restless rise of infant dawn.

Look!
The eastward lily lifts its laden lockes,
reveals its face and fingers fair!
Like that first unbeckoned burst,
that dewy dappled drip of crimson bloom,
begotten, born and glaring garnet
rich against September jade.

This white and golden blossomed orb,
casting calm its primrose praise;
Cantelope crowned,
split and dripping, drip and dripping,
all its juice and all its joy.

A sigh.
Sky-sung, harp string strung;
Day has young, crawled and come,
well come, welcome.

My Blossom Blue

As long you latent slept, upon the brink
of blooming, clenching fingers curled, as each
a pedal pink and pearled, I'd wait and think;
await your blessed budding, think and reach
my only thought of worth- Your life begun.

To blink and see my blossomed babe, behold
and cradle, cry before my rosling son,
my waking world entire. Your thumbs unfold,
your ocean eyes to open, glimpsing first,
before this world unknown, my welcome wide
and weeping eyes. Your maiden sight a burst
of warmth, of full your father's love. Inside
your silent room, to soon be lost and left,
you latent lay, of smiles and cries bereft.

You Autumn bloom, your sudden spring. I wide
eyed watch your pink and pedals fresh unfold,
the first and fragile breath you caughing cried.
I gentle plucked my rose to heaven hold,
to feel his feathered hair, to breath his scent,
his pollen sweet. I caught your gaze, the dawn
of first your oceans waking, cresting, bent
and breathless blue, like curtains calm and drawn;
unearthly calm, yet crashing Summer swells.

My rosling growing, distant grew, away
away, my blossom blue. As crimson fell,
with Autumn's golden crown to gild the gray
of Winter's womb, from far my born
and blossom blue, I cold and wistful mourn.

Alone, alone as last the yellow leaf
to harvest roam, amidst November's pale
and frosted yawn, without the red relief
of Summer's scarlet, hooded dawning veil-
Away and windcaught, wrapped and wrought
in Winter's womb, I still and sodden morn.

Yet He who Winter weaves, who thorough thought
my blossom blue, His Winter opera born
of wind and string, in wordless wisdom sings:
That blossoms fallen, bloom a blissful Sring.

First and Fallen

The sun is silver, Summer ends.
Cool, the wind that blows, that throws
the first and faintest Autumn scent-
a distand chimney bricked and churning,
fallen maple, chopped and burning.
Brown and yellow leaves on sidewalks
sleeping, crisp and windcaught creeping.

It blows, and blowing throws these subtle
strong September smells, like castings
swells to cover Summer's silken sand,
to primrose paint, its green and gardened hands.

Beyond the jade horizon hilled,
October, near and breathing, casts its clear
and harvest sky. Comely cast,
abound in slightly cold and paler blue-
as if years and ages younger,
infant full and fresh.

Chestnuts falling gild the ground,
dropping dressed in brownish crimson,
deep maroon, with auburn burnt and singed.
Upon the dawn of dusk, each one casts
its colors skyward; a million tiny bursts
erupt to drench the sky, across and dripping,
down the burning canvas calm.

The moon an orange,
dropped amidst the climbing stars collected,
clustering crystals clear. The manderin sits
and dangles dear, appearing cold and cloudless close.
The stars surrounding, constellations bounding,
breathless bright awake and wander
far their shadowed fields. Burning,
each seems birthed this very night.

Cold the wind that midnight blows,
along the meadows, leaved and lush.
Flowing, blowing, crisp and crossing,
ripe and rushing round the vast
and casting veil of night. Restless
lingers loud the leaf racked rustle,
dropped and drifting, hidden by
the moonlight's strange and shifting shine.

Painted blooms the flowered dawn.
Violet, lilac lily, primrose placed
and painted, born about the brow
of morning's making. Above,
all then blends to apricot stained;
birthed, the first and fallen Autumn morn.

Spider Lily

Aloft the ocean, ashen silk. Above
the hilled horizon, long and lavender laced;
The milken moon, a Spider Lily, dove
like nested, pale nor painted, fair nor faced,
a-sail nor sunken, halved and hangs, as lone
the Lily hangs above the stream below.
Suspended moon, upon your splendid throne,
and Lily shone in soft the rippled flow;
you both reflect the once and fallen Son.
The Son who watched from tall his timbered tomb
and hung His head amidst a death begun,
who bleeding wept, and bowed amidst His bloom.
I trace the moon, His high and hanging crown,
the Spider Lily, blossomed gazing down.