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Poems by Alexandra Allard

 

 

 

 

Morning Sun

Why do I imagine the sun as magical,
a sign of some inner event, a renewal.
I know the sun for what it is,
a star, an atomic furnace,
and a minor one at that.

Even the moon, of grave portent,
is nothing but a poor reflection,
a desire for light in the dark starlight
of my dimly remembered dreams.

Though vivid in their time, they fade
as the light rises and I rise from a sleep,
a dumb time in the dark and there it is, again
through the black branches of a winter.

It fills up the shadows where I can no longer
see or remember what is hidden there.

Mark Clement - Nov. 2003