Sunday, October 25, 2009

The Kiss Of Golden Sunlight

Painting by Claude Monet

—Ronald Edwin Lane, Weimar

I’m driving to work.
Behind me the sky is peach and red,
Up ahead a dim cool blue.
Trees stand in silhouette.
Tail lights stare like eyes, red.
My own eyes dry.
Orange intensifies in the sunrise.
Between east and west the sky glows silver.
I’m getting more and more of that in my hair,
I grow older like the sunrise.
The clouds in the silver sky are
Pastel shades of purple and lighter shades of sunrise,
Brighter on their sides that greet the day.
Life steps from silhouette.
The kiss of golden sunlight has
Yet to mark this day.
There’s something special about that first touch.
The clouds are touched.
That’s why they’re so pretty,
Why they glow while the rest of us wait—dim.
In that way they’re like you.

I’m hungry.
Some of the clouds now white as day
But still I drive in gray.
Those clouds that hug the mountains
Block the sun.
It’s after 6:30 A.M.
It seems as though the sun
Should have touched the land by now.

That first touch is special.
You can almost hear the leaves sing
In anticipation.
Any second now,
It’s on the verge.
Overhead stratus clouds turn to angel’s wings.
The blackbirds on the sign face east
Bob their heads.
On a tree a crow cries. “Come on, hurry up, rise!”
The sun slides up.
It’s red.
Like your lips.
And soon it will rise above the mist.
Such anticipation
In waiting for this kiss.
But it’s inevitable—the world turns.