The Sun

I dreamed I could change at will my mood
easily from foreboding grey
like light at sunset on the clouds
that surprisingly do not rain
to quiet silver in the rising moon.

I lingered in a hale repose
and saw the majesty of stars
because of such a wide and open view
that lets in light from light years far
as dew upon the open rose.

Later as the swoon progressed
I wore the cunning of a fox
the running unseen through the brush
over rivers full of rocks
to steal the quail eggs from the nest

and later still the play of love
of vixen, kits and sturdy den
the way the air the willow bends
the way my cat and I are friends
the cooing of two mourning doves

and then before the morning light
the sadness of a mother quail
without her children ever more
moved my heart as if a sail
I grimly tacked back to delight.

Strangely (a word not strange to dream)
I tired of the moods I made,
the brooding loneliness of power,
my deafness to what nature said,
the veiled grace of the fixed beam.