Where The Earth Bends - Poem by Sonny Rainshine
I often look at the azure sky of mid-morning,
or the purpling crawl of twilight,
the Joseph's-coat of the sky at sunset.
And countless times I peer out beyond
glass doors toward the gray-green contours
of the hills, broken by the points of conifers
and the sparkle of white houses.
And the river there:
color that travels,
color that changes
and robs the palettes
of the trees and sky.
But hardly ever do my eyes
focus on the horizon where
the earth abuts the sky; where
the sphere arcs
and reminds me
that I'm planted precariously
on a twirling ball.
Artists say there is no such thing
as a true straight line.
All creation curves
all things resist uniformity.
Yet, we strive for straightness,
building our homes in cubes,
our streets in immaculate grids,
lives in neat compartments.
Lately, I find myself looking
more at the ever-receding horizon,
marveling at the soft roundness
of things. And wondering
what's beyond it
and beyond the one after that.
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