Light from Light

Bright shines the feathered flyer, in the morning Sun
That rises red or golden, going right
Up the upper airs, which in the night
Do deliver darkness deep blue. Run
The clouds, scattered, from the scoring heat
Of thirteen thousand nuclear furnaces
And more; tell me what the Sun surpasses
Not, nor tramples 'neath its flaming feet.

Not what, but who—for He is not a "what"
Who gives to gaseous giants the golden glow
And to deft daffodils their dainty shine
Of yellow lock-like petals. For the hot
Aura of Orion and, below,
Gold ore are delved from one eternal mine.

T. G. 4/10/19