Creator

Over there, at the singe of morning, is a tern 
At the edge of shadow. Visions of streams turn 
Under the edge of the airy fields that burn 
In pale indigo with embers of feldspar in the fern 
Of starlight stilling. Someone lingers there, stern 
In his holiness, to guide us beyond the gossamer urn 
Of gravities that hold time in its slow sojourn 
In the universe. All will still before him as he advises 
The mind of light. And this I touched in the frail 
Blue frost far distant under the cliff of the pale 
Of dust. Will he, shaping the billowing veil 
Of light in time, pause to reveal the end and adjourn 
The seraphim into still another place? What arises 
From his hand now but the burnishing?