Morning Ride To Old Mission
Point Lighthouse, October
North to the lighthouse
the world distilled
to a drop of amber
sailing along
the singing rim
of a sun blown glass
full to the brim
a sin
to sip when
I can drain it dry
in one long pull
up the molten road
a golden toast
drunk
to relentless waning
light
shadows long licking
the last
of the grapes
south of Mapleton
clustered translucent
summer beads
in one final flare
combine with the glint
from the shards
of the empty glass
smashed heedlessly on
the verge
of road
unfurling
presenting itself
for the sacrament
the lighthouse
balanced lightly at
the tip waves
breaking
on the shore
in endless supplication.
