In darkness
creation becomes two-dimensional:
Night rain presses monochrome leaves
against paved streets,
replicating wallpaper
of patterned black and charcoal.
An oak
is but a dark pole
distanced
by the loss of light.
The shades of night
dull delicate textures,
distinctions, contours
and narratives.
And so
the bombs drop
indiscriminately
varnishing our humanity
with ignorance.
React not against raised arms,
the shadows drawn from the sheath,
but seek wholeness.
Trace the valleys and ranges
of the weathered bark.
With pure curiosity
examine the thin veins
webbing a seasoned leaf
of orange
red
and yellow.
The dawn swells
with a yawning pastel sky—
a chasm opens
and grace is no longer a silhouette.