Even between our manmade sources of light, stretched across the break of a breathless dawn . . . He speaks.
Even Between the Lines
Before sunrise I walk our drive’s way
toward a lane of lines which unwind
their electric wend between high
wooden poles flanking either side
of our road. From the ground, steel
wires entwine, luring me from a scape
of navy twilight, its last dance
with the dimming moon
to the long loom of black thread
that as I near, shifts and drifts
up and down in rhythm with my step,
a charged weave stealing my gaze
from the sky’s stillness,
where it rests on sunset’s
pillowed illusion
that evenings are forever
and stars still shine above
the uncrossed lines of a lit horizon.
Yet this morning, my step halts
before the rife cords, and I find
power’s taut lines loosed
and realigned as musical staff—
the glint of stars fixed as chords
of a dawning refrain—a holy stave
of space and line that sounds
the heavens at break of day.
This poem was first published by Amethyst Review: Even Between the Lines