Turn Out The Sun

By Peter Halstead

Rising like a white sheet through the dusty windowpanes,
Sunday morning lights the trees through sporadic rains,
Braids of fading fire suspended in the frozen autumn’s sheaves
Balloons of fallen summer that blow up in the leaves,

The trembling sleeted forest thawing silently to gold
As heat replaces one last time the mountain night’s new cold,
While I, in bed, try turning off my miniature light
To stop the growing sun’s intruding early height,

As if one small lamp held sway over creeping day or dark,
As if a switch could keep at bay the season’s weeping bark
Or perpetuate the dream of things against the winter’s sweep
As tears last night become, today, just souvenirs of sleep.