Poem for Red-Sun Mornings

Are there poems for red sun mornings,

Over functioning developments of gray?

Do they rhyme as they climb,

Or are they patterned in some longer and more patient way?

Are there poems that can contain the foreshadows of final meetings

And still manage, in approach, some colored fun,

           Though less than joy

           Though more than fear

           A momentous toy through aged years?

And what do they call this gray-red sun?

I thought I knew the East extreme of flight and light-feet bursting seams, the lines all thrown aside for my throne, wide and tall and overall, what my heart touched was mine and thine and freedom owned made us divine, and these poems I know I do I pour out into them and thank you, and

I thought I knew the catching of the fraction just past the midday peek…  The settling fall. Into the drop. A mourning pace. Withdrawn and drugging, building speed. Worse than fear:  Discouraged at its transparent printed feet.  But

Is there a poem for what we do,

How we move while dying?

Do you know of an example?

          Show me how we fly while graying,

          How we blend the paints before drying.

Is the rhythm in every word we sit with, every step we choose?

Friends can't read sometimes what's mixed up into what they already use.

Who are these poems written to?

Do they exist, and if they do,

Could I be one...

?