A Poem a Day (744): Sunborn

 
Sunborn
 
We are morning as it is, a peace offering,
how it wakes, breathes, uneasy storm,
the sunborn scent of the ever ocean shifting,
scoping air and wing and self.
 
Murmurs are the scribes of life,
raindrops twisted from the eyes of clouds
screaming truth into a wild scribbled sea,
sun-speckled woven quilts of salted lace.
 
A hand rocks the whole world true
in an escape of shot-out landed blue,
and we are aghast at the dice full-thrown,
their echo, their shape, their secret truth.
 
Set sail under a sheer-white blown flag
waving surrender before you could fail,
your number waiting in the wings,
this dripping real the only salve you need.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 24, 2026