Byron Hoot

The sunlight is silver,
the clouds a light lavender
between the gray and white,
above the yet dark tree line
on the horizon, the time before
full light.  The scene will change.
The clouds shift in color
and shape, the light losing that
silver tint to the golden light
of day, the slow, steady movement
by the sun in moment and degree
moving from east to west.  That
eternal certainty in a context
never the same.  The sun affected
by or affecting the changes
of the seasons.  If this is in the sun,
why is not so in me?  This ambiguity
of first and second causes,
the eternal certainty in the face
of change, the equanimity that
nothing remains the same except
the beauty of how things fit together.