The Epilogue Entries – No.8

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WHITE

∴

when the sun rose up
at the start of new seasons,
it was not shielded by rock
nor veiled by the cloud.

it rose like the skin of a peach
that purpled to blue,
and then burst
in round, boundary-less rays.

it shot into winter
like hope
into one
who’d forgotten.

and everything else

went white.

 

the thin and brittle
blades of green grass-

white.

 

the gnarled branch
of rose hips and thorn-

white.

 

the smooth, newly-dug bed,
where the tulip bulbs sleep-

white.

 

the clay
that looked the same
as stone,
that looked the same
as gravel,
that looked the same
as hay,
that looked the same
as the reeds and cattails
that bent low-

white.

 

and all that white
reflected back

a dull and smokey-matte mirror

to the sun:

 

oh,
what your rising
has done.

 

∴

 

 

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