Light dances unseen through the bleak reaches of space, ignoring the darkness, born of the wrath of the spindrift stars. Light strikes the ethereal shield around the earth-mother, tinting the edges of the sky with subtle watercolors. Light throbs with life as it finds things to cast itself upon, coalescing into beams and rays racing each other through the air. Light peeks above the silhouettes of peak and ridgeline, searching for the low places.
Light dances across meadows, sparkling the dew, waking the night sleepers and sending the day sleepers scampering to their dreams. Light highlights even as it throws shadows, filling furrows or leaping across them, depending upon their orientation.
Light dances on the surface of a bubbling, babbling stream, skipping, gleaming, flittering, giving birth to tiny suns in the beaded spray. Light lands on leaf and branch and stream bank, leaving shade-shapes to play in the air and the water. Light becomes a living thing. Light delights.
Light dances over waving seas of grass in the meadows, and flits among wind-blown shadows. Light runs its fingers down craggy cliff faces, setting crack and protrusion into relief. Light reaches its zenith, and shadows draw in upon themselves, biding their time until they can stretch forth once more. Light flicks the dust most floating on the breeze. Light dapples the forest floor into a moving confusion of misshapen shapes.
Light dances even as it relents, softens, fades, but this is the illusion of light, its magic, for it does none of these things. As it picks up its brushes to color the heavens once again in a never-ending array of masterpieces, it is not giving up one iota of its power… it moves to dance in a new place, leaving this place to prepare for the next day’s dance.
Light dances slowly away. Light lingers, caressing the edge of forever, giving one last playful wink before the dance moves on.
Okay, so I sometimes write poetry. Not all the time, but now and then. I know that not everyone likes poetry. You might find it boring or even pretentious. I sometimes do, But not always. This ‘silver’ poem is for a new friend I made here on the blog recently. I just opened a new blank page in Word and let the crack squirrels in my head control my fingers.
If anyone is interested, I was thinking about my recent adventure in Yosemite when I was typing this. You can find more of my poems by using the word-cloud thing in my sidebar, I think. I don’t know. I am a computer moron. Somebody helped me set that up.
Dude, I love you, love your humour, love your books… but stick to the prose.
I am a prose pro, I propose that I suppose I knows about prose, and those prose of which I knows, goes to shows that my prose blows… in the wind, I mean, and it floes, my prose, as it goes and goes, with highs and lows, as I mows and hoes the weeds from the rows of rose-colored prose and sews the new seed that grows into more prose, though there are those, those ordinary Joes, whose woes expose their prose down around their toes… and these I expose.
Now that’s just awesome.
I know you are, but what am I?