2. Amen of the stars, of the ringed planet


Rising like a white sheet through the dusty
    window panes,
Sunday morning lights the trees through
    sporadic rains,
Braids of fading fire suspended in the frozen
    autumn’s sheaves
Balloons of fallen summer that blow up in
    the leaves,

The trembling sleeted forest thawing silently
    to gold
As heat replaces one last time the mountain
    night’s new cold,
While I, in bed, try turning off my miniature light
To stop the growing sun’s intruding early height,

As if one small lamp held sway over creeping
    day or dark,
As if a switch could keep at bay the season’s
    weeping bark
Or perpetuate the dream of things against
    the winter’s sweep
As tears last night become, today, just souvenirs
    of sleep.