The sun rises on All Souls Day.
All is quiet against the edges
of its roseate significance.
Eyes pilot dawn
to pull up the drawn shades
in celebration of all that has gone before.
The first light comes like a vagabond
from out of the dark,
like a poetry who’ll correspond
with every emerging rock and stranded moon sliver.
Seen from above, these forms are reflected,
while cloud cover shivers with the alchemy of expectation.
They’ll come like half-formed silhouettes
giving shape to the imagination,
an indentation, a footprint
on the lunar dreamscape of sand.
It is there, with the shoreline accentuated in foam,
growing out of the soft glow of the sea
receding to the strength of morning,
transforming the shadow of mourning
the passing of loved ones
like mist in the hills growing further away.
On this day they are near
to the hue as the sky breaks up the fear,
and the dark contours of thought
are merely detours to steer through,
like a road that hugs a cliff,
unforgiving if you’ll stray
too close to the edge of a petrified flame,
this old and weathered grey shaved
as dawn draws petroglyphs on the walls of the cave
to light the way.
I can hear the heart beating
the sweat beading
the rhythmic breathing
from the climbing
to ridge stillness.
Beyond a wilderness of ferns
is a sea gaze and I am brought home again.
Plans do not always bring
high winds to stagnant bookends
when becalmed in the middle of the ocean,
what draws me on remains a mystery,
how every step deconstructs what’s within,
dawn is always starting over.