There’s something like silence
in a cobweb of magic
hailing me from the subtle
coasts of a blithe awareness
slow and distant in its crafting,
a conflation bearing the tender
thunder of golds in a night’s rising
sun where the black inks of my
horizon sits below the sliver
of Chalcedon’s crescent moon
rising, dawn chasing the night
now in earnest in the anise light
of daybreak folded across the
expanse of my own determination –
this is where love lives in its
infinite decision, a dedication
to where I stand wandering in
these lands awash in the
agate-red clouds and amber
whites of my own emergence,
crisp as the desert air I breathe

© K. James Ribble

Writing Prompt:  silent magic