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.