Light
The world is filled with the setting sun:
Across the fields
The autumn wood
Glows gold.
Cottonwoods
Rise up into the tireless blue,
Clothing their spreading, unleafed arms
With light.
* * * * * *
The world is an autumn mist;
Cottonwoods
Hold the mist within
Their fine-branched arms.
The autumn woods
Stand up beyond,
Flanking the
Rising sun,
Which fills the mist;
And only the daring
Cottonwood
Spreads its branches,
Filling them
With light.
– Brandt Nightingale
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