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.
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