The sun in dying glory breathes,

and hangs in swollen sigh

upon the face of aging day;

scatters secrets on the sea.

For moments sliding brightly past

it waits, in patient swelling

for angels wings to beat at last

and whisper night’s fresh calling.

This golden orb, the Mother’s child

was birthed to live and die;

upon her salt-kissed watery breast

the son surrenders life.

Within the endless drawing down

is quenched eternal fires,

in ancient drownings spirit soars

to reach the celestial crown.

For only in the dying hours

can life be brought to birth,

and only in the bringing forth

can death reveal her source.



Prompt #127 Becoming landscape, pt.1

 Here, now, our meaning is not on a broad scale, but personally, how intimately we relate within our surroundings.  


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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