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The sun patterns the ground
With shadows,
Sometimes sharp
Sometimes blurred of edge.
Sometimes grey
Sometimes black and pointed etched.
The sun patterns the ground
Misshaping as the hall of mirrors
Distorts each image.
Our spinning globe rearranges
The angle of deflection,
The tallest tree seems small
The smallest flea casts shadows
Twice the size of any oak.
The sun and thoughts of reflection
Pull shadows like elastic stretched
Or painted with the abstract brush.
Pieces sprinkled, a mobile collage
That you can never hold
Save in your heart and eye.
The sun patterns the ground
With shadows.
And like the shadows
Slips silently away
And leaves no trace of occupation. |