Night’s child—sorrow of the
morning sun.
April arrives—bare, too soon,
unraveling the winds.
Do the mountains know?
Do the rivers?
That you are the light,
sharp as the moon.
Pink blossoms bloom—
splitting the bluest sky.
Do the seas confess?
Do the sunsets?
That you are the
ocean’s dream.
Bricks of the city quiver
as the hammer comes down,
red-soaked—like the blood moon
on paper and ink.
Pearls, flowers, and rains
blossom into spring.
Green meadows rise,
turning into butterflies.
Do the stars concede?
Do the shadows?
That you are
summer’s smile—
child of heaven
and dawn,
vast as I am
small and barren—
hope of the
morning sun.