Michael Sowder – II

Dawn Song 

 

 

 

 

Summer nights, we grabbed fireflies

out of the dark.  Our hands become

red lanterns.  A child’s game, sure.

 

But on that morning when trees

on the highest ridge

catch fire, and behind the mountains

inside you the Nameless One rises

like a mirror of the sun,

 

then you’ll lie down in the grass

among the drowsing fireflies,

when the birds in the words

of the poem will have flown off,

as you close your eyes to the sound

of the one name echoing

through the sky.