Wednesday, May 5, 2010
by Gideon Burton
The airy tissue of the island clouds
unweaves, collides, then weaves itself again
until an erring kite or plane unshrouds
the azure arch of afternoon, dark span
of thickest oxygen that bleeds into
the black escape of emptiness and time,
beyond the curve of indigo and blue.
The rockets, metal-girded, eager, primed
to pierce both atmospheres and ignorance
attack the waiting sky with trailing flame,
igniting some small part of earth, their chance
to measure sunbeams, or give stars their names.
A ribbon girds our planet, tightly held,
yet some escape, like roaring redwoods felled.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - colinjcampbell.