Against the morning,
eking its way into what
Has become today,
I see your silhouette
the soft lines of you
Against the softness
Of sunrise
How the sun and you
Exchange whispers
“Have a good day, little bird.”
“Enjoy the journey, my loyal sun”
Items appear on the horizon
That most mornings
Have gone unnoticed to me
Should I remember this feeling
After the weekend flies by
Like the dove,
I will rise early without request
My soul will ignite at the
Memory of yellow light
Dancing into the clouds
With blues becoming–
And traces of lavender
Fading with each step I take.
I’ll write something new
that pales to sonnets behind me
that pales to the poetic efforts
of the last twenty-four years
The day when I was thirteen–a poet.
That day, the first time
the words came and became.
Poetry.
Before me,
people speak in silence
I put words in their hands
“Did you see the sun rise today?”
one asks another,
who is clad in cozy layers of denim and flannel.
They feel happy together,
looking at the sun
on a Friday morning
the whole world
gleaming under the shiny down
of the doves crest
as she flies.