Does the sun know that in eight minutes time
Light from it’s ancient fusion will arrive in my eyes?
Given what I see I assume some level of consciousness
Creativity in the morning on the curtains by my bed
Surely the sun must know
That at a certain angle it will make a show
.
The curtains, closed, help
They are pale, with a light vertical trellis in places
But mostly a rambling rose, with buds and flowers
They too I ascend like the sun
Climb out of winter slumber to follow the light
And set their leaves in air in flight
.
But it is brightly creative and alive and moving
The light moves mostly down and slightly to the left
As the sun, close to mid-summer rises to the right
And beyond the window, trees, branches, leaves
All too in motion, swaying in the breeze
And, in motion too, attached to trees
.
At times there is no show as clouds, I presume, block the light
But wait and it returns
Some singular path joins unjoined growth, in juxtaposition
A pattern and patterns of movement coalesce
And a dance unfolds, of shapes over shapes
Beside our bed, through window and on our drapes
.
A small fluted leaf, a stem, a branch
And what are clearly oak leaves lobed and blunt
Wisteria, filigrees of fine hair on a babies brow
Some, distant and indistinct bit of tree makes a backdrop
To some limb and leaf nearby and in focus, sharp
Plays and upstages the rest, visually like the sound of a harp
.
From a boiling mass far away
Beyond white hot, a creative act
Lyrical and rolling the sound of the thunder of the sun
Made into a light show for our eyes, briefly
Transformed by a passage through space
To our bedroom, to this place
Moving Space 