With Geraldine Toh

All night I waited for a sign: one borne on the wings of morning

but even the sun, it seems, is exiled from the sky this morning.

Sunbeams stab the sleeping clouds; scarlet from deep wounds streaming,

twisted into coral strands to adorn the wrist of morning.

The crickets are asleep or silent; perhaps they too are weary of their song:

"At evening there is weeping, but joy shall come with morning."

Eyes stare, transfixed, and stiffen, as daybreak lets fall her robe;

dark waters surge in deep climax and die, lost to the plunge of morning.

In the garden of memory I linger on, unwilling to depart;

I gather there night's secrets, tears, to set alight each morning.

Earth wakes in conflagration; the horizon is ablaze;

nothing escapes the ravaging kiss, the ruthless bliss of morning.

Light follows dark; so too the seasons, in this world that keeps on turning.

O Rain, even the birds know this. And soon it will be morning.

And I, poor fool, what shall I do, in the face of the onrushing day?

That which you've known all along, Len. Surrender to the morning.

<< / >>