Down eastern flanks

through a broken aspen grove

a slant of sun

shoots a russet maple rose

rising early from the river bank.

It stills across moving glass

against a tilted granite face

spraying sparks of gold

toward cobalt sky -

like first flash

from a school boy's eyes

thrown through wooded windows

when kitchen silence

thunders home it's Saturday

breaking his lips awake

at the sweet taste of light.


Jerome L. McElroy