Questioning the Gnomon: Session Two

O Fingernail Moon have you sent us Morning Sun to show us building? And Morning Sun are you sliding down the mountainside to hint at pyramids, how to build them, before you take time into the sea? O Fingernail Moon did my father sip nectar from your crescent lip before he conned the Sun’s descent down the mountainside? I am an architect’s son who watched his father’s hand trace imagined walls upward from foundation stone, his design contemplative of what might become a home. I am an architect’s son. I learned from him how the lift of dream calls skill to cloathe a naked place, nature’s skien rewind into humane living space. I am an architect’s son. I would match my father’s hands with heft of words to build from a resonant base a scene enlivened by sound and touch perchance poetic grace.