© Steve King
All rights reserved
Ah, the morning light,
—Morning
Light!
It won’t do now
to squander other words,
just
—Morning Light!
A painter might rise to his brush
and measure it so true.
Another sort might offer faint
reflections of the sun.
But I must fold this picture
in the dark book of my mind,
where all images are fixed,
where breaching intuitions intertwine
with old emotions
and the unrefined imaginings
that heat the youngest of desires.
So when the book reopens,
those shadows to unwind,
yes,
then shall there be words
for Morning Light.
