Creation in Microcosm

The time of lights,

stretching languidly

across the horizon.

Robber of an artist’s pallet,

long, slow strokes

of burning embers

and cold air colors

frame the day to come.


Deep reds, to pink, to purple,

to every orange shade

and there,

where it lies most potent,

deep at its source;


then pure white.


And the day is here.

And I open my eyes.

And I stretch out my arms

against the breadth of the sky

as if I am the horizon

and the sun is rising over me.


In those moments,

before the day is born,

the air gets a few degrees colder.

These are virgin breaths,

first of the day,

free and clean and clear;

as yet uncorrupted by the dawn.


Through my nose,

I breathe it in deeply.

I can feel it in my lungs

and I am more than conscious;

I am present

at the birth of a new day.


Sequestered black and grey,

streaking long shadows flee,

banished with the night

by the conflagration in the sky

and color returns to the world,

as if lovingly and skillfully rendered

by some unseen hand.


In the middle

of the glory of the morning,

I have seen

Creation in microcosm.


HG – 2017

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