I always thought I would be daybreak—something pastel and ripe.

I mused myself a rising sun.

Obvious in my radiance,

Glazing over a honey-hued sky.


But I think I’m more midnight than daybreak.

I fled from this,

Parceled myself in prettier pieces.

But I’m night.

Plum-blackberry Rorschach, complex.

Midnight is equally riotous and secretive—

A backdrop for what is afraid to be seen.


And in the undesired hour, starts are born,

a celebration of illumination suddenly bursts through the black,

Moon-cycles guide the tides.

And it is still.  Divinely still.

There is light and life on the other side of a set sun.

My whole life has been a wrangling of constellations from brief bursts of cosmic light.

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