Afterwards Poem by GORDON GILHULY

morning her sky-shaped gown
spread shamelessly before the long
golden tongue of the sun closes her eyes in the
ecstasy of another birth

the long dark night having held
our small world tightly
in her mother-arms exhales
tentatively, leaves her tears on the

meadow grass the virgin sunflowers
with their father's eyes begin their
slow, steady search of the skies
waiting for the cacaphony

of voices that become
each day's symphony
each day's plainsong of praise

and no songs come.

morning's softness yields to
the hardness of noon the chatter
of the stream catches in its
throat, slows its rush, quietly mutters

apologies to the void the wind
quiets its lascivious moans in the ears
of the leaves, whispers sweet nothings

to the emptiness.

on the silent anvil of endtimes, the air
is listless, defeated; murmurous with absences
the world lies paralyzed on its knees
like ancient Sodom praying for redemption

a perfect stillness lies all along
the little valley of the stream and then
the shock of sudden rain the leaves
on the birch trees falling and fallen

arrows of rain pulling them down the stream-side path
already plastered with their dead shapes,
dark and pointed like black stars

the last thin, pale daylight falling out of the sky