Northern Light
Who is this One who paints neon today & watercolor tomorrow?
Moth wings to blackest night, He is the Artist.
Hand too heavy
some say
as it strikes lightning or quakes the earth He made Himself,
The Potter
bakes deserts of clay & rock He laid
the deepest red / the driest grey
the most brittle brown looking like an accidental masterpiece as it cracks and weaves wadis that I find myself lost in.
The cuts in the crust ebb & flow haphazardly to a rhythm I have yet to dance to
but I hear it in the back of my mind like a war song pushing me towards water
yet
sometimes I see more clearly my opponent than my Ally.
This landscape
This broken ground
The map of cracks is like the wear on the faces of the ones who’ve gone before me.
A web worn on cheek & eyelid folds of eyes that closed more often in prayer than indifference
Laugh lines like there would have been on David from dancing before the Lord, undignified
Glee cut wrinkles around his nose
Like crevice from cactus to cave.
Crows’ feet must have walked here and made their mark in the dust
and corners of the eyes of the ones
who had eyes only for their Artist.
Who is this One who kindles the Sun yet lays a snowflake on a blanket of its friends with gentleness unheard of?
No prototypes
moth wings to blackest night
He is the Artist.
Aurora Borealis
an original.
Imposters will try to emulate with ink what He has done with atmosphere.
Orion observes from above,
I from below
I have never felt so small
and so close
to the Artist.
