This is the first poem that I published online, in 2018. Although today I would change a few things about it, I am publishing it here again as is. Let me know your thoughts


A delicate beauty creeps

along the summer horizon.

Clouds refracting the setting

sun in a bounty of pinks,

oranges and purples.

The sky is no longer blue,

except from a bird’s-eye view.

Birds sing a paean to

the rainbow hues;

their scattered voices

blending into one.

Theirs is Apollo’s song

in declension.

Theirs a wavering praise

of all that is brilliant

and warm.


Cool colors mark

the horizon now,

and still birds sing.

Is it instinct or

emotional response?

Who has studied

the emotions of birds?

Who the motions of their

ululating throats?


All is serene as the sun

plunges past the horizon,

indifferent to the Earth.

Who can measure beauty,

or even say what it is?

The sun shines in spite

of itself.

Solar flares flicking the

radiant atmosphere.

Tongues of fire — from

Hell or Pentecost?

Helios can answer:

Apollo remains mute.

Why must the gods be

invoked at all?

Is this nature or

supernature at work?


Colors fade, clouds

disperse, beauty sleeps,

blanketed in dark.

Let us be wary:

Heat grows cold.

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