A LONG QUESTION

A LONG QUESTION

 It must go back to more magical times,

 when the sun rises like a fiery blossom

 over the ridge, and a lone crow croaks

 its monotone: kah-kah-kah-kah! Could

 it be the one lingering note, a sad refrain

 of awe and reverence for the sun god

 cut down since to a constantly ho-hum

 yo-yo motion over ridges, lakes, or bays,

 it must now be invisible like the wild

 dandelion cut wantonly off manicured

 lawns, even its shimmer on gossamer

 silkworm strands glistening on twigs

 attracts longer glances than metaphors

 that have lost their lustre in the hands

 of some inept moulder of words, crystal

 jars that could have held those sunrays

 at a standstill and lit the dark hallways

 that needed to warm-over the frigid

 goodbyes of lovers who have loved and

 lost, but know that mornings are new

 days with new sunrises at the wood’s edge? 

 The crow on the branch must know a more

 urgent omen, it cackles its warning quite

 like the staccato of a grumpy tetrameter,

 as if it were demanding an answer to its

 question: What if the sun does not rise again?

 Or another: When will the sun not rise again?

  

—Albert B. Casuga

 04-03-12

Poem Prompts: Out in time for the second sunrise, when the sun clears the near ridge and appears among the trees, an impossible blossom. ---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 04-02-12 . An old strand of caterpillar silk at the wood’s edge shimmers in the sun. A crow keeps saying something urgent in four syllables. ---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 04-03-12