A moment of light, a minute of sky,
What's more here to love, so tender and bright?
If I was to stand before magic-old pattern
Of carpet, to fly in the cloudy far land,
Then nothing would stop me from feeling the wind,
From gliding and sliding the slopes of the mist,
Of cirrus and stratus, wet cottons up high.
Astray altocumulus's surfing the tide
On edge of horizon, and Sun's born in flames,
Fleeting and rising for noon in all fame, -
First minute of light, an hour of sky, -
In gratitude deeply, and nothing to hide...
So many treasures up far, cold and ardent, -
If only I could have found old carpet.

July 2024