the stars are gone with the black
without a trace
without footprints to follow
where they fly
starlings are already bright at their perch
singing spells to raise the casing of day
watercolors, salmon and pink, paint
impressions of mountains and cloud-scapes
dreams waiting to be awakened and real
nearby, lumbering shadows flee my room
deserting to the silent hallway
soon, the sun will intercede
the sky be crowned
pure, firm, fearless like fire wild
and there, the slivered Moon, once her own
glory will lose her iridescence
yet, stay at her post
as if she were called to be matron
the sun’s sole pale attendant
– Michael Parker