After Freddie Hubbard
first light skims on green wing like sprouts strobing for ray climbs from soils of night, through damask-leafed curtain a gateless gate, come home from crescendo of star-gazing to dew of earth shiver
soft landing the late hour spectrum writhes low sparkle; lyrical shade, the last paint of moon, slow light before sky turns cotton, before landscape melts in sun’s imperial gold
and the morning bird tells you from the tree growing from shadow the light is what you bring when the dark barely weighs
Originally published in Jerry Jazz Musician