Orange six a.m.
against which the black
outline of a townhouse
is slatted
and branches like an upright willow broom
are sweeping into the bloom of blue
and the yellow window of a second-story room
tells me someone else is awake and is
so friendly
that I must turn away
back into my dark little studio
and pretend I am not touched.

Because I was too lazy to paint
this early winter morning
and had no mechanical camera -
because I could not keep beauty perfectly -
I felt compelled to forget the image
in my head
and go back to my muggy coffee.

But the soul in me resisted
so I am writing this to remember
that the most beautiful thing was
the purple smoke dancing like a slow Arabian
across the horizon's glow.

And now there is a half-past raspberry line
so fiercely slashed behind the trees and -
the magic is gone and the sky is normal-pink
and I can see the neighbor's red door in the dull light

But I have the elusive moment
because I gazed with the half-reverence
of a wiseman.