William Hathaway, Poet
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Christmas Sunrise Over the Passagassawakeag


These are colors you’d see staring down
into a caldera or dripping off a cliff
in blackest night. Blues range from cobalt
to tempered steel. But what do words
do for the sublime? The sun rises,
as has been often said, also. Meaning
all the time no matter what. Often
without much show, but when it fans
out to strut across a horizon,
you need to be there. Who cares
you saw ruins in Peru, or your grandchild
won a science prize, as you announce
in a memo folded in a Rothko
greeting card, only reminding us
how tedious you used to be
describing your acid trips? Of course,
I am glad enough you’re still here
and getting there, as I’m also happy
to be here, pensive before a molten sky
watching flocks of seagulls sail
through everyday glory, as they also fly
on days the sun also just comes up
yellow or not at all, on their way
to breakfast at the garbage dump.

​

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