Thursday, March 21, 2013


          — Inspired by Howard L. Peterson, aka A Prophet of 3

In his fingers swell curvatures of light - 
not always his own, but prisms of others 
who cannot speak to unravel 
these vast mysteries in attendance.

Beneath a frozen moon, he pauses and laughs,
not caring who hears or what they might think.

He carefully tends to remnants of life,
those raw edges no one ever wants to acknowledge
or imagine as becoming their own.

Adrift, he knows the direction of shore.

He is a precious, precocious bird,
a harbinger of dawn's adagio,
singing when all is still, silent and dark.