Fuse

by Ed Werstein

All’s quiet on the eastern front
as a thin white cloud
an open parenthesis
curves up from the line
separating the gray-blue sky
from the blue-gray lake.

Gradually it begins to glow
red-orange
like a lit fuse.

Slowly the sun
like a programmed cherry bomb
rising light by light
from the bottom of a Times Square billboard
climbs out of the lake.

As it crowns into view
the horizon explodes
flashes brilliant north to south, afire
like a distant war zone
only silent, and with hope.