Morning Light in Saint Louis

by N. Andreil Martin


For the sun, the horizon ends

where brick rooftops begin. Scarlet oak, acorn,

and hickory trees blur the glowing line

of that awakening star, made clearer by the cold nip

in the early autumn air. The world barely stirs,

except for a skein of Canadian geese flying

low over the dew-misted grass of Forest Park

landing next to a copse of sugar maple trees, heavy

with verdant leaves burning gold at the edges.

Shafts of the sun's light pierce

through branches of the trees,

allowing some boughs to be draped

by shadows, darkening the fiery green of

the leaves. His eyes are like that,

when desire darkens them,

they peer into mine like the morning sun.