At first light
when I am alone
and dawn invokes its chord
of green and silver sycamore
beneath the lune of fog
sleeping on the valley's rim,
I look around this circle
of mystery
and see the fog unfold
along some magic diameter of light,
distilling azure down out of its gray,
the colors feathered out,
becoming grace of bluebird
seen beside the wood.

The bluebird drifts among her young,
her darker mate,
tangent to each
along arcs of timelessness.

Sounds impinge
indistinct across the soothe of mist
like echoes of flutes
hovering along my radii.

Beyond reach upon the meadow,
this blue bird moves,
is beauty
and there is a piercing truth
in such completed circles.

For beauty alters.
It is no nugget
to be once forged
upon the anvil of eternity.
It is more than word
which hammers meaning
into the silence between us.

It stuns the center, purifying,
and the beauty of this moment
rounds its steel
upon the tinder of my heart
to set it burning,
into the light.