It’s 6:30 pm, on a September
Sunday, too late to be called
summer and the clouds are
suddenly transformed into
bands of energy, like a vulva,
and the sky gods begin to birth,
cinematically slow, an egg of fire,
oozing from the space that
separates the temporary from
endless beauty.
A long time ago, people- not so
different than you and I-
awaited this hour, as a nightly
ritual.
For them, it was an offering of light
made into pictures of brick and limestone.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, the Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in the USA Today, Wall Street Journal, the Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, the Buffalo News, and more.
See all his poems on Tea House here.