Fireworks
A chrysanthemum emanates above
In the empty and dead-star dripping sky.
Comets shoot up, crossing over all of
The ashen trails burnt early in July.
Clusters and crossettes strobe in the distance,
Delaying bursts clutter the silent night.
The clatter echoes in the spacious persistence
And the pyrotechnic display ignites.
Sparks fall to the ground like the willow's leaves
In brocades both woven and unwinding.
It's a spectacle I hardly believe;
The explosive glow appears so blinding
As if I'd seen nothing—nothing at all—
In the luminous fireworks' torrid squall.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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