The time of lights,
stretching languidly
across the horizon.
Robber of an artist’s pallet,
long, slow strokes
of burning embers
and cold air colors
frame the day to come.
Deep reds, to pink, to purple,
to every orange shade
and there,
where it lies most potent,
deep at its source;
yellow,
then pure white.
And the day is here.
And I open my eyes.
And I stretch out my arms
against the breadth of the sky
as if I am the horizon
and the sun is rising over me.
In those moments,
before the day is born,
the air gets a few degrees colder.
These are virgin breaths,
first of the day,
free and clean and clear;
as yet uncorrupted by the dawn.
Through my nose,
I breathe it in deeply.
I can feel it in my lungs
and I am more than conscious;
I am present
at the birth of a new day.
Sequestered black and grey,
streaking long shadows flee,
banished with the night
by the conflagration in the sky
and color returns to the world,
as if lovingly and skillfully rendered
by some unseen hand.
In the middle
of the glory of the morning,
I have seen
Creation in microcosm.
HG – 2017
