The Days

In days charged by thunder,
The hours rattled by currents,
I awaken with wonder
And savor my disturbance.

In the supple shine of morning
I start the long, lonely climb
Across worlds still forming
Under wet reliefs of lime.

In the sudden strike of noon,
The skies are an ashen paste
And though storms are coming soon
I cannot act with haste.

I must produce gold from gales
That chafes the gathering dead
Who die as heroes in my tales
That steeps their passage in dread.

In the evening’s dimming echo,
I found what I love and who I am.
The blue blossoms are now aglow
With the poem of life again.

In days charged by thunder,
The hours rattled by currents,
I awaken with wonder
And savor my disturbance.