Sky is both diffuser

And its own prismatic piece.

Its job is Light,

Which goes and flows,

And touches here and there,

On bended frond or purling wake,

Or jalousie’s a-line skirt.

Receiving Light,

That little thing – the branch, the wave, the pane –

Lobs it fracteled left and right

Improbably to find

Corners still in westward gloam,

Walls facing yesterday.

A watcher looking east,

Seeing silhouette afire,

Bows at Light that seeks and finds

And rides on little things,

Surprising Light, physics’ star,

A Law unto Itself.

Looking East In Winter

The sun rises south

Of my line of vision,

Which is limited,

Blocked by the bulk of

Our own building.

But I can still see the sun rise

Largely on the face of the

Tallest building on the water;

A dull colored block of

Thick-pasty concrete.

It happens so finely that

I cannot name the second,

Just suddenly see the nondescript

Lift its head in gold-face.

Uprights and crossbeams,

Doubly anointed, thrust forward in

Cross-shaped relief

Against angled shadows behind.

Even paste and concrete

Have their language.