Traveling North between the rise and fall,
morning struggled to pull night down as
the moon in the sky hung heavy still;
like moods that can shift between constant
and sundry, the atmosphere positioned
formidable forces against each other:
in the East, the sun climbed through
lavender and freshly laundered clouds
hung out in observance of the solstice;
while in the West, in its slag to finish its job,
still drunk from a rabble rouse with night,
blue skies framed the crater’d hanger on’r.
Driving through a kind of no man’s land,
the ghost light drowning stayed lit for me
doggedly begging off the invitation to leave
as day offered no comfort when the light
would invariably succumb to a longer night
than that pushed out of its path yesterday.
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