Saturday, January 28, 2023

Some of the things the sun can do
along the river walk are almost quicker
than eye can catch.
It will become halo in a laughing woman's
long black hair, curve round her face,
almost touch her breast.

It will bounce itself off the river to a bridge's
shaded arching underside,
so when the wind ruffles the water
it can strew itself into silent concerts
of patterns that with each other dance.

It will flaunt itself in myriad
slivers of mesquite leaves,
while with an old magnolia,
it mostly demurs, peeking out in places,
April green, December gold,
once here, once there,
for every hundred it hides itself.

Oh, if you could see it now, how just,
just before sinking itself into the side pocket
of a skyline horizon, that cue ball sun
shoots through my beer and bourbon
casting shadows, amber, brown, upon this paper.
If you could see it, the muse would smile.

April 25, 1983