by Zinta Aistars
"Purva," watercolor, by Viestarts Aistars
It’s just beyond—that place we long to reach,
a bleeding and slow laboring light, evidence of desire,
trembling like a mirage on the far horizon
and knifing the sky, seam to seam, like a split wound.
Just beyond, if only our reach might extend
an inch or two farther than our grasp.
Still standing with our feet in the muck of today
while tomorrow beckons—a clearing
crowned with morning fire.