One Time Around
Morning begins,
not with the fresh promise of a new day.
Instead,
the air is thick with promise and fear.
The sun shines bright.
Its rays only a fraction,
a spattering of pink and yellow light.
This morning is cold.
The day begins in a different way.
Though sounds signal this gathering life,
the morning sky is neither blue nor grey.
Mid morning sky becomes a gathering storm.
A strong fury,
blossoming fatalism,
the end seems near.
But slowly
slowly,
v e r y s l o w l y,
the storm passes.
Alive.
The clouds clear and promise is again thick.
The sun’s rays are strong,
but still the air is curiously cool.
Warmth is absent.
Warmth is craved.
Its absence is feared.
Perhaps it is warmer there,
or there,
or there,
maybe there?
But here it’s not unbearably cold.
The flickers of warmth from a distant sun,
An ancient ball of gas billions of lifetimes old,
whose rays are curiously and unbearably obscured.
Eight minutes old waves,
illuminate fears felt but not heard.
A bird soars high,
warm and free
from the thickness of promise,
and the absence of heat.
The sun now sits high in the limitless blue,
with warmth still frighteningly distant.
Alone, though not, in a day half-way through.
Alone, cold, and now trapped in what seemed but an instant.
The burdens of a day only half-gone,
encumbered by a life only half-spent.
The fleeting memory of warmth leaves only greater desire,
Its passing a scar in a life only half-went.
The only thing worse might be no scar at all.
Then again…
What has this afternoon,
this evening,
and this night to bring?
Will they pass with grace, poise, and bright warm sun?
Might they deliver a joy that will sing?
Will they bring warmth from the promise of tomorrow?
Or might the warmth of the sun never reach this day?
Might they repeat the day’s early sorrow?
Perhaps the promise of a day that will never really be seen?
Or will they bring ever more cold, more pain?
Or might they bring the birth of wings?
Whatever, may the end come swiftly.
Let the burning cold come with the flash of a moment.
For this day has been long,
cold,
and alone.
These scars are many and they run long and deep.
May this end come like an eagle,
for it be too long if comes with a creep.
It has been too long, too dark and too cold.
It has been far too painful, and too lonely to grow old.
Copyright © Robert Masterson | Year Posted 2012
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