Wednesday, November 23, 2022

Variations at Sunset

The imagined sun is no less real
Than the one we worship
But the hawk that comes close
Is more familiar.

We who make the least etheric goods
Can afford to think our thoughts are less,
A quotient of air, a gradient of nothingness,
For what imprisons us we're proud to possess.

A father dominates his daughter at hoops
But one would never know,
Nor the meaning feet deal to a soccer ball --
How heavy in the material must holiness go.

We savor and wait for the pink
As ideal at the end of the day.
Is it real, we ask, knowing it's physical,
Colors still stable to unbelieving eyes.

How dimly the world of thought
We come from filters in
To the neighborhood of hard-edged forms
And children spiraling with glee.

The blue light dog, with a tennis ball 
In its snout, can only smile
At how we've made things simple,
Impossible to transcend.