Creation’s Dance Card
by Odin Roark

Sunrise.

We look,
but don’t see.
Varied stages of growing ruin
surround our beginnings.
asking…

Noon.

We often listen,
but hear little,
even as inhaling winds from afar
awaken something inside us,
that place where
stories aren’t just read,
illustration not just pictured.

We squirm.

Eyes and ears
entreat enigma’s dots to connect,
pleading.

Sundown.

We turn in place,
asking is such aliveness but our harlequin
playfully sounding vesper’s invading calliope,
springing to life lesson’s party
of many unconnected stories,
packed into dream’s blood red rosebuds
as sleep and fire.
Counted,
but not tended.
Circulating
but not freed.
Imploring.

Midnight.

Our lamp insists on impersonating sun,
casting shadows across table’s plateau,
imitating as daylight’s sister,
time’s knowing silhouette,
insisting.

Choice beckons.

Light?

Shadow?

Leader?

Follower?

Creation’s dance card filled,
but not full,
keeping room for one more…
or two,
or….