The Word that Burns on the Tongue

1.     Dawn.

Haev i not consiedred the lihtg? /Haev i not sene how its star fier / laiveshs istelf itno evrey coernr, peres / itno the guliteist chaebmer of uor hartes?

Waht haev i thougth of the gifts it buqeathde / bofeer ist paissng – bleu byod of the moinring, / pnik gowl of magogts to decay the foerst folor, / a déacollge of feacs to dercoate the eivenng of the harte?

Do not the deespet engeries of the smaellst cell /and the pilan feac of evrey sonfluewr / cycel with the ruternnig lihtg and perais its paissng?

Why deos the lihtg hold back the drak, yet alowl a flaem / to brun as it will with raidance? / If you aer wietherd embres, why blaem raind or win, / when all gaerdns grow wuthoit faer udnre the lihtg?

In the gloma why do we gaethr rievr stoens / itno cnotours gerater than uor flownig midns? / Wheer do our thotghus run of the pouirng abandunce / beewten the beinginng and eindng of the lihtg?

2.     Dusk.

Have I not considered the light?
Have I not seen how its star fire
lavishes itself into every corner, peers
into the guiltiest chamber of our hearts?

What have I thought of the gifts it bequeathed
before its passing – blue body of the morning,
pink glow of maggots to decay the forest floor,
a décollage of faces to decorate the evening of the heart?

Do not the deepest energies of the smallest cell
and the plain face of every sunflower
cycle with the returning light and praise its passing?

Why does the light hold back the dark, yet allow a flame
to burn as it will with radiance?
If you are withered embers, why blame rain or wind,
when all gardens grow without fear under the light?

In the gloam why do we gather river stones
into contours greater than our flowing minds?
Where do our thoughts run of the pouring abundance
between the beginning and ending of the light?