I always thought I would be daybreak—something pastel and ripe.
I mused myself a rising sun.
Obvious in my radiance,
Glazing over a honey-hued sky.
But I think I’m more midnight than daybreak.
I fled from this,
Parceled myself in prettier pieces.
But I’m night.
Plum-blackberry Rorschach, complex.
Midnight is equally riotous and secretive—
A backdrop for what is afraid to be seen.
And in the undesired hour, starts are born,
a celebration of illumination suddenly bursts through the black,
Moon-cycles guide the tides.
And it is still. Divinely still.
There is light and life on the other side of a set sun.
My whole life has been a wrangling of constellations from brief bursts of cosmic light.