There is in sunlight no matter of chance.
Even concealed by fog or thunder storm,
Or the earth in its rotational dance,
Sunrise will mend the dark’s misshapen form,
Making a mountain of the Matterhorn,
And tipping the point of the smallest thorn.
Like a flower’s blossoming, the sunrise
Blooms too slow for even the quickest eyes.
It’s best to turn away for a moment —
Turn back to measure the burning’s ascent.
Eyes closed I watch my eyelids brightening
And concentrate — a mental lightning
Transforms a thought into a warming star,
Renewal of hope brought home from afar.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
