My tendrils reach to sun
even in twilight, the voice
of each one comes to life,
like a collective hum,
a soprano praise to sky
and to light even on the shortest day,
when everywhere the darkness
opens wide, like the mouth of a cave.
In my stillness, I wade in,
slowly, hide the sound
darkness struggles to let out.
Even as I find myself between
the teeth, in the swallow-throat
of cavern into belly, the fluidity
of darkness hung around my neck
like jewelry, but more necessary,
more imminent, like this cycle
we are a part of without ever
having signed up for it.
As soon as I have come to terms
with the bitter taste of this song
of darkness in my mouth,
light begins to emerge.
I see it in the colors I become,
hear my song at a higher pitch
as I see the lips of the cave,
exit through them again.
Tomorrow, I will remember and forget
this and the next day too,
when the sun comes.
I will stand tall before it,
and I will reach for it, reach.
This poem was for a prompt our group wrote to in honor of the late Julie Brokken and as an ekphrastic piece to one of her photos “Twilight Apache Blume.”
Julie Brokken’s website is beautiful with her art. You can see this photo: “Twilight Apache Plume” at this link at the bottom of the page. It is the next to last photo. Here is the link:
2 thoughts on “Twilight Apache Plume”
Thank you, Larry!