Late-summer dawn

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]

A ghost is speechless among the trees,
pensive and solemn; memories
are flowers pressed between pages
of the mind; quiet in cages,
domiciled and nearly tame,
in a wilderness aflame.
The alternating cloud and sun,
the shifting winds, the day begun
with such serene explosion of light,
tranquil as a wandering wight;
all is expressed in breathing,
with the air through leaves, seething,
attending to whispered almost-words
between the songs of insects and birds;
the grass, the trees, the very stones,
the hidden array of sleeping bones,
the diminishing corners of shade
while light upon the world is laid,
a white-golden torrent, a sea
of endless day, of bright eternity.