Petrichor (2015)

Poet! cried the Muse, Clouds threaten our day;
Rescue it with verse; keep the rain away.
A second first light ‘fore a too soon dark—
Create it, poet: be the midday lark.

My song could fly, but it’s one I won’t sing;
To unhearing sky, it’s on leaden wing.

Poet, you insult me with modesty.
Can I not command your art with my plea?

That gray heavens were once azure at all,
That Abakan widens, rises, and falls
That Taiga lives not for man or for muse
Means that among its moods, we cannot choose.

Even had white nights once lit all my days,
They’d be but Cytherean shadow plays.
So mourn not Apollo’s waning gold tide:
All the world fades before your blue eyes.

When birches’ leaves, green to crimson, give way
Song would only flatter Nature’s decay.
Evergreen goldthread too is diminished
As seasons change: once in bloom, now finished.

Your blues and your auburn do not wither.
In both gale force song and quiet whisper,
To singular beauty, a unique truth,
Can I write at all: I compose for you.

My Poet, sang the Muse, these words will do.