Warm Morning Light [Common Meter]

My walk is in the early hours,
in dawn's buttery light.
There's a gold glint to all that's pale,
whether a wall of white
or waters of a placid lake
or eucalyptus trunks
or on the waving Pampas grass
or on the robes of monks.

And by the time I've lost that light,
the walking hour is done.
And I'll be looking forward to
when next the day is dun.

POEM: The Hour of the Sun

Like muscle-bound bouncers,
the twin mountains stood —
ominous & imposing.

An hour of light per day
squeezed between those broad shoulders.

One hour of sunlight —
in the good seasons,
when there was sun.

The villagers’ days pivoted on that hour.

Whatever is the opposite of a siesta, they lived it.
A fiesta?
an hour of frenetic love…
of dance
of the outdoors
of the sun
of love, itself.

Outsiders found the place dismal & gloomy,
but they never loved the sun
like those villagers love the sun.