A Six-Year-Old’s Sunrise
A SIX-YEAR-OLD’S SUNRISE
by Noel F. Zamora
Papa brings me here, every morning
on his bicycle, to the Pandan bridge
to watch the surging sea of sunlight
flood the golden fields of ripened rice.
I watch the making of a messy school-craft:
scarlet ink spilling out onto the black-paper sky,
palm-painted by a God-child’s unseen hands,
slopped up from the blot of deepest red
peeking behind Arayat’s eastern peak.
The cradle of the mountain crown burns
in the morning breeze as the roosters in the street-corners
awaken the shadowed village of Cutud.
Life stirs in the limping light.
“This,” Papa says, “is how God paints