by R. Nemo Hill
A ghost of pale, transparent blue—this kite
entangled in the treetops, trapped and torn,
is the first bit of color to ignite
in the darkness of the garden before dawn.
Each morning while garden greens are still dim gray,
still shadows—there appears one breath of light
from deep within the nowhere that is day—
this sapphire almost blinding, but not bright.
Membrane thin, its disembodied wing
is an angel, downcast, flickering through dark trees,
in silent desolation heralding
the bold fragility of all one sees—
bound but not broken by the weight of that light
which the wretched carry with them from the night.