Nightly Excursions
On the edge of the mysterious earth
with its eerie shadows and secret caves,
echoing the language of the spirits,
is the home of that drifting torch
that burns through the day,
sitting high in the sky but growing weak,
still smiling and covering up the sadness
with crimson tears cascading down its wings,
droplets of effervescent rivulets
glistening in the twilight,
getting ready for that nightly excursion
with the raging westward rivers
that race toward the edge of the earth,
a perilous journey through the rocks,
leading to the very top of the waterfall
that rushes down the side of the earth,
that falls down a million fathoms or
maybe just one until it reaches the bottom,
the earth that mingled with the sky
and bore it out of wedlock,
the mother that gives it wings to fly,
the mother that sings it a bed time lullaby,
that offers her soft bosom
for its sleepy head to lay upon,
that stands by until the morn,
then sends it on another daytime excursion,
another mission of good will
until Mother Earth calls for it
to come home again
in the same way she did
yesterday and the eternity before.
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