A mist shrouds this ancient land
as the gloaming grays the skies in
ashen pink hues that stubbornly refuse
to reveal all that I know must be there.
Where are the gossamer threads
of light glancing gleeful off the water?
Where the playfully sauntering greens
that grin from each layering leaf?
But the richest colors I have ever known
silken sweep across your cheeks,
descending deftly down your hair
like the wondrous warm russet of dawn,
the ever rising intimacy of the sun’s
first light before which even the gods—
curating creators of all we behold—
humbly bow in worshipful obeisance.
George Ellington 