John C. Mannone
The sun, a fire-brass peg,
nails the sky dome to horizon;
the tent, stitched with zipper of pines,
shrouded with sheer blue nylon air.
I look out the dome of my great tent
windowing heaven and wonder
who forged the iron suns, hammered
sparks still embering the anvil night.
Who made the stars
explode, who left their silver ash
beneath my feet? I sleep to dream
the answers that my grandfathers
Poet’s Notes: I was traveling south to Chattanooga on I-75 in early November 2007 when the sun appeared just above the horizon, and the sky appeared a beautiful clear blue, while rapidly taking on the hue of twilight. It reminded me of those glorious days of tenting.
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