The sunset morse.
A new porthole swings in,
a shush click certainty
that's satisfyingly mechanical,
crystallizing guesses into vowels.
This crisp optical is a hard truth,
unfiltering the comforting imprecision
unhiding the mundanity of edges
startling maybes into actuals.
Driving that night,
I was half passenger, half sack,
squintmaking a fireriot of smear and streak
to kindle some wonder from that dark.
You talked of avoidance,
like it's a bad word.
But I'm not against,
Just quiet and beside.
And within those days of maybe
I wondered if our street were revisioned,
unbuilt back to the grass and silence,
when cardinals would sing atop three hundred, not one.
Would our edges blur
into the softness of understanding
that there's no fear in doubt
only days and their possibilities?
I saw cars break the sunset,
intersections of day and small darks
codes of light and small nights
a hope-blinding morse if we cared to decipher.
And then down by that moat of sedges
their golden halos bristling,
a breeze came to uncrown
and wilt the winter fleece.
A rising of seed caught the last sun,
Fifteen prayer pearls to claim eternity.
Their urge but a sidewalk toyland for our bystanding,
for our new eyes, to re-see the minor gods.