Water Color

In the earliest morning, just after the dark,
When the pond forms were fuzzy and the trees hard to mark,
A moment invited me into the scene
By painting me into my vision’s own arc.

The pale pond and sky shared the space in between
With sea grass and trees in a fog-blend of green.
The notions of motion and time lost from mind
Suspended by rose light too soft to be seen.

Not quiet, yet peaceful, this landscape entwined
The flyways where birds sang the songs long refined,
And liquid air summoned sounds it could achieve
Through drops of dew drumming a beat of some kind.

When I was a boy, I had tried to conceive
How big is the sky past the stars we perceive?
And what is its tiniest part that’s discrete?
And where do I fit in? And what to believe?

This live water color so full seemed to treat
All questions as moot, academic conceit.
With a presence sufficient, just after the dark,
In that moment of morning, it all seemed complete.