Last Light in September

This morning,
when a late September’s moon
set fully in the west,
its light white
in the early darkness,
a dream cast
into the room
as though some
desert land was
filled with snow;

but then,
through the louvers
dawn took over,
and a rising sun,
being the more informed,
struck a feverish pace
towards day.

In times like these
I feel that every word
I’ve penned on earth
has somehow broken falsely,
and every beauty
that I’ve ascribed
to life
is really seen
in error.

So I must ask you
to come with me
to close your eyes
as dawn approaches.
Hear the flutter
of the mourning dove
in the oleander blooms,
and listen towards
the pines down in the fields.
The grackling speech
of sandhill cranes
is fading long
as light awakens.

Now know this:
I as well as you
are born to mystery,
though we might
sometimes think
true light
has failed
each other.

Don Cadwallader

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