That valiant hour

Now are the tacit seconds laid between,
    the song and sing – when ghosts once locked away,
        stumble into forms of animals and blooms,
to revel in their coruscating sheen,
    and marvel at the crimson creep of rays,
        that finger forth between the gloam and blue.

Now is the valiant hour when thoughts oblique,
    in hushed danger drown within the eye,
or gasping at the brink of misted vision,
    scatter into the cracks of furtive winks.

The vibrant moment now is tolled and rung,
    and rings aloud in hollow chamber’s sigh,
as petals, wings, or leaves – unlaced, undone –
    are slipped aloft on exhalation’s glide. 


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