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.