In the serenity of a mountain morning,
dawn emerges from a darkened robe.
Along the Bron- Yr- Aur borders
and ever changing folds
she tempers the coals
with the cool breath of night,
keeping hillsides from burning
and transforming everything to gold.
You are the marriage of opposites,
the light strands sequenced in a braid,
two faces coiling through sleep,
the sun coalesced with the shade.
In the mushroom clouds of this shifting
through the zeitgeist of these times,
you pull a blanket over the fear
that hangs in the air
as sure as the expectancy of a new day.
Your dexterous fingers turn the page,
luminous as a laser
that naturally knows the way
through misshapen clouds.
Through the Tao of sculptural precision,
you reveal the light parts,
the porcelain in night’s revision.
Bear witness to this masterclass in adapting,
the emerging image by degrees.
It is true that you dwell there,
though I cannot know you as my pupil.
For you taught me to listen through the distortion,
to see the crystal coursing
through every passing action.
In the crane’s graceful transitions
on the banks of the estuary,
you’re the wings of white light
ascending from the dark of the periphery.
A neck disappearing
with a feather and a ripple,
gathering in the edges
of a timeless brook
invigorating with the medicine
of soft murmurs and whispering,
breaking the noxious transmission of
virus and confusion.
Dawn is the calm amidst danger
that leaves its imprint everywhere.
A balm over the psychic wounds
we perceive clearer
as she pulls from her pouch a sacred mirror
smooth as an undisturbed lake.
Everything under the sky
now unmasked can dab their face.
Reborn daily, healed through creativity.
If only temporarily, this reprieve
penetrates the anticipation
without force or fist but gently disguised
in mist that asks nothing of the ridge,
all along Wa’ahila she dances.
I watch this from a distance
her entrance, these footprints,
the undisturbed parchment
where the spirit finds nourishment.
Simultaneously quick and deliberate,
she remain undefined,
opening her book of changes
with words written brightly,
then fading on subsequent pages,
always scattered by the wind
towards the horizon
as the day begins in the creases
where the night grows dim.