Dawn In a Summer Garden
At the exact moment of dawn,
that micro-second when the sun,
from millions of miles away,
fires its first beams like lasers
as it crests the curvature
of the Earth
and
one of those laser beams
pierces the dank and humid darkness
of the lush garden
and
suddenly all sounds cease,
as if someone had flipped a switch
and the deafening silence is felt
as pressure, as if some spectoral
hands has cupped themselves
over one's ears--a muffled roar
of seashells held up to a child's ear,
longing to hear the ocean
of one's youth.
Then the beam shifts
and touches the tender edges
of a few chosen leaves
and then settles and spreads itself
over a gossamer arachnoid treasure
woven with mathmatical precision
wafting slightly in a gentle
morning breeze
like the sail of a fairy ship,
quivering dew drops caught and
transformed into a dozen
crystal prisms, sparkling jewels,
multi faceted fluid diamonds
and then
just as quickly as it came it is gone,
this magical moment, as the brutal
sun climbs higher
and the soft buttery light sharpens
and spreads its heat
and the steam begins to rise
from the dark earth, wispy, reluctant
spectors of the Southern night
and
the muffled quiet is broken
by the clear song of a cardinal,
a flash of magnificent red
amongst the many shades of green,
as the creatures of the night burrow deep,
hiding from the searing summer heat
that has already begun
in this southern garden
of
light and dark
song and silence
beauty and distruction
and so another magnolia-laden
summer night is gone
and one must reluctantly rise
another summer day begun.
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