At Some Time Earlier,
Before The Rite of Spring
Down in the hollow of the mountain
the late sun crashes orange
settles, waits for night
and, like a god or painter
sorting colors from
out of gobs of blackness,
prepares to start again
the upward climb. But first,
waking cypress and juniper
with their frolicking prayers,
and their tours en l’air
rousing sleepy little spiders and
baptizing bracken and pine with dew.
You rise from under your comforter,
lithe as Stravinsky’s Ballerina,
yourself, still half asleep, dancing
for the sad Petrushka while wiping
the night’s tears from your eyes
as you try to see through
the schiffli lace draping the window,
yearning for what the new dawn might
bring and what the promised colors will be.
From the god or painter. Or Magician.
Vibrant and real you pray,
but perhaps it would be enough:
just the gold brocade of sunlight.