I am debating with the reddening sky
the nature of the ideal horizon.
Perhaps, the still whiteness of the northern most mountains
refracting the first light of a newborn day
and sending it scattering
dancing over icy lakes
or possibly, the reflection of that same day’s sun
slipping soundlessly into the mirror of an ocean at rest.
Maybe the strange jutting forms of the western canyons
standing witnesses to the birth and death of millions of days,
propping up the sheet of sky that falls in ragged strips around them
or simply the memories of my childhood horizons
needle-rich pines sketched against the pastel turn of the hour
in the quiet promise of silt-cool water.
I consider all these and more.
But again, I come back to your sleeping silhouette
the curve of your shoulder and neck
a rich brown against the fading sun
the sweet tracing of a chin, challenging the heavens
a mouth open as if to swallow the last light from the day
and hold it safely
until rest has been doled out evenly
among all creatures.