A creature of the light, you stand
still at the mercy of the sun.
Where you live inside his pattern,
flowers rise and fall unhung.
Now you’re a sea, now wild fields.
The wind whispers patience
to you, dreaming as you face him,
the frenzied stillness of his gaze
turning you into a mountain or half
an hour glass or patch of night.
Your eyes steadfastly deliver
their blue like your parcels,
across centuries, having to get
through, even your watching him
but another face of your faithfulness
to your post, the silent syllables
of your burden speaking on the other side
of the page, canvas, or grave. Outside,
a northeaster wails away,
and we too watch and must obey.
Grey Sparrow Journal 