Day
Crisscrosses
With night,
Somehow manages
To touch the other's hand
Even if
One is allergic
To the heat
And the other,
A fear of the dark.
There's a striking
Balance in the
Muted gray
Of the groggy sky—
A scenery
Not very much unlike
That
Of a slumbering owl
And a waking wren,
One creature
In cahoots
With the darkness
And the other
Perhaps too
With light.
Both,
Sing very
Different songs—yet
Both
Seem to arrive
At the same purpose:
Which is to see
What the other
Really is made of
Beyond the light
And shroud—
Touch maybe even
Forbidden wings and
Quietly
Sing some more;
In this habitat
Of shadows
They—we—will not be bothered.
So sing, wren,
Your truest of songs:
"Good morning,
"Good morning,
"The day is
"But coming,"
So sing, owl,
Your truest of songs:
"Good evening,
"Good evening,
"The night is
"But leaving."
And so now kiss, night,
The plodding day.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
Day
Crisscrosses
With night,
Somehow manages
To touch the other's hand
Even if
One is allergic
To the heat
And the other,
A fear of the dark.
There's a striking
Balance in the
Muted gray
Of the groggy sky—
A scenery
Not very much unlike
That
Of a slumbering owl
And a waking wren,
One creature
In cahoots
With the darkness
And the other
Perhaps too
With light.
Both,
Sing very
Different songs—yet
Both
Seem to arrive
At the same purpose:
Which is to see
What the other
Really is made of
Beyond the light
And shroud—
Touch maybe even
Forbidden wings and
Quietly
Sing some more;
In this habitat
Of shadows
They—we—will not be bothered.
So sing, wren,
Your truest of songs:
"Good morning,
"Good morning,
"The day is
"But coming,"
So sing, owl,
Your truest of songs:
"Good evening,
"Good evening,
"The night is
"But leaving."
And so now kiss, night,
The plodding day.
