Ode to a Runner Vanishing into Early Spring Sunset

 

Runners of the evening golden hour
carry sunset on the napes of their necks
as the light lays its bravura decline,
tuning down the tilted, thinning rays,

matching the longest of the shades
while night already gathers from above,
opening its arcane vault in hues of violet,
with each measured yet unhurried pace,

like a breath that waxes sublime, musical—
everything continues, along and on the move,
yet also turning still, each in its distinct way.

And you wonder in whose kindly deepened eyes
an inner room, once broached, would widen far enough
to resound the falling dusk and its agnate rhyme.

Vladimir Suchan: Dust of Light, available on Amazon

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GPS7ZVPC

 

Painted Silk of Folding Gaze

 

Gazelles, not yet merged with breath,
hover in air that spells life—
on the cusp of being born, ushered in
by a gaze that has already found

its ringing gleam, eager to paint with light,
balanced and well-trimmed, with no pause
for wayward faults, no dulling notes,
through the pupil, from the iris’ bloom.

And even if nothing is said
in a softly released sound,
the flowing sigh itself already speaks,

assuredly knowing its way with touch,
rendering the game perplexed—
to be received with such eyes!

Wisdom of the Crows (After Bushi)

 

Autumn ushers in its end,
beneath a crow's black crown,
on a bough stripped bare—

Who else can survey
so keenly from within the woods
all that has died or lives?

These ever-alert guards
know always
who moves in, who out.