Purple and orange paint the beige colored clouds,
wine dark blue cloaks the background.
Run along the troughs of the wheatfield, and get closer,
a wide screen in view, like the panorama
of an old drive-in movie,
the soundtrack cicadas and katydids.
I clutch wildflowers from the meadow,
and just sit alone to watch;
I am on a planet where no one lives but me.
Darker now, the colors shift and striate,
wavy flecks of amber float in tandem,
a blister of a howling mouth, a crater of contained fire,
spreads across the sky.
The sun reaches the horizon and dips down,
and the light suddenly spreads out
and throws up filaments of radiance
towards the heavens, splaying like a gossamer fan.
I am beguiled by the lights unfettered voice,
and my heart swirls in its round chamber.
Finally, a young moon silvers the ground
and the stars begin their evening vigil,
Weeping pussy willows and a windmill in the distance are black now,
something has caught in my throat
tangled between silence and sound
on this soft summer night.
Rhonda Morrison, May 2013