Before dawn, beyond a clear pane
the stuff of white day emerges
slowly from nightshade after a snowstorm;
memories reforming in a skull cave
alive with energy, the name we give to what sparks,
shimmers, dances, feels, loves, speaks, hates, seeks,
dreams, eats, keeps, or let’s go

the stuff of white day
emerges as if bidden like Lazarus
to repeat again its reformation

by noon the stuff of white day
has shattered nightshade defining
every snowbound cranny & nook
with strokes of shadow as Franz Kline
stroked canvas with a brush

but nightshade too repeats,
never sleeps, stutters in pleats of time
bidden like Lazarus to wrap itself
in winding sheets till

Jim Culleny