IN THE MIDST OF NOON

1

Right in the midst of a whole roaring avalanche of fire stands my father.
The light tears flashes, no, tears leaps of furious snow
out of the flight of steps my father has designed
with humble pride, and all around him fly
in flakes of light the trunks of royal palms.
His clothes in truth do burn as white live —coals
that scorch and then transfix and fuse his face
into a joy that goes beyond
the consummation of his project, far beyond
his fierce resplendent stature.