Sonnet #27

Perhaps it’s naught but simple tricks of lightFrom here my perch upon this dew-drenched rock,Who turns its face from flaming gas t’ward night, The moon my path to light, the sun to mock.

But midway through the dance into the dark,The light explodes and spreads its spectral soulAnd touches mine—an unexpected arc.What author twists the plot to make me whole?

Whose glory does my face now mock instead?What science calculates this splash of awe?What facts withstand the onslaught in my head,The battlefield of beauty, where they fall?

A brief relief from loneliness it was.The distant moonlight monochrome returns.Creator is or not, creation does.Existence is the least of my concerns.

The source of all this yes? I cannot say.Her siren song has saved me for today.