Nancy Wahl

At Some Time Earlier, 
   Before The Rite of Spring

Down in the hollow of the mountain
the late sun crashes orange
against purple;

settles, waits for night
and, like a god or painter 
sorting colors from 

out of gobs of blackness,
prepares to start again 
the upward climb. But first,

the dancers: 
waking cypress and juniper 
with their frolicking prayers,

and their tours en l’air
rousing sleepy little spiders and 
baptizing bracken and pine with dew. 

You rise from under your comforter,
lithe as Stravinsky’s Ballerina, 
yourself, still half asleep, dancing 

for the sad Petrushka while wiping 
the night’s tears from your eyes 
as you try to see through 

the schiffli lace draping the window, 
yearning for what the new dawn might
bring and what the promised colors will be.

From the god or painter. Or Magician.
Vibrant and real you pray,
but perhaps it would be enough:

just the gold brocade of sunlight.