What light may break through the scrub trees
that line the well-groomed yard at dawn
is thin and pale, its weight degrees
less than it when it lingers on
the lower depths, the southern end,
below the Orleans waterline;
there it hangs and drips with fat
and heavy water in the pines
and live oaks. Yet it brings the day
on the same time clock. Newton claimed
that mass does not affect the way
a thing responds; its strength is tamed
by gravity, that evens out
the superficial and the deep.
I, though, with Einstein, have my doubts,
while watching as new sunsets creep,
some like a lion, others meek,
with peacock’s plumes, or subtle shades;
some like a corpse, that dares not speak;
a few like boisterous parades.
What insights in an hour’s time
the rare observer gains, are lost
once that same sun completes its climb
and burns away both death, and frost.
14 OCT 2005
