The rise of a golden luminary above
the horizon, the canal's diagonal slope
prior to morning. She moves without type
nor style, she populates the world's beehive
with her brilliance. I hear a gentle wave
from the gulf lay on the shore, a brown rope
has moored the boat. I trace the lines of landscape
with my fingertips and define this love
by color. The unfolding pasture and plain
receives the sky, the air does as it will
with water vapor, the stars rise once again
and sing into the night. O her hair falls
into young day! Have I not loved in vain?
Or am I under this fair goddess' spell?
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