Dayspring
The morning moon is setting. It is still
And not. The light is light and fading but
Not fading. Dawn is hovering in the chill
Of lunar death that is not death. Life is cut
From death as if a sliver of a far
Lost moon, though cryogenic in its cold,
Is counting on the dark to save this scar
As frigid as its shape to hold white gold
In crescents like this one, to make it last
As long as light and matter linger on.
This wish, though it is also quite as vast
As God creating, is the primal dawn.
A vision opens up composed of light
As faint as dying yet as daybreak’s rite.
~ Phillip Whidden
