The sun does arise 
In that aubade way 
It spills out over petals 
Infinitely
So silent but a discourse:
A camp of brook and pale-freckled 
Leaves,
A clamor of engines 
Escaping the scene
Too busy, too distant 
To actualize their hum.
At the intercession of wood and modern man 
I stood dutiful, tenuous,
Apt to standing still
‘Tween what has my calling
And what, my will:
This aesthetic simplicity, resplendent awe
Stays with the punch-card
On my way to work 
But I know I’ll stand at the edge
Once more.