No one writes symphonies anymore.
The last mountain
has risen from the sea.
Rumors of ash-wasted forests
pass without words
into the paperless future.

We have learned to dream smaller,
to hide our tissue of awe
between tabloid pages.

So I expect no one will write
a letter home
about the yellow sky---

its shout of light
over roofs and highways.
At eight o¹clock,
the discus, hurled
slow-motion across the sky,
freezes in flight, a blotch of white.

White fire,
it turns the sky to melted butter,
a gentle melt that flows
from infinity to Texas.
A cloudless, smooth spread
of endless yellow sky.

The longest day still doesn¹t last
that long, nor its song,
if no one writes symphonies anymore.

copyright © the author, 2000