Dawn

The misconception about morning is that she breaks into the landscape
like her cousin, the thunderstorm.
This is conceptually untrue.

Dawn’s early kiss hello starts with a deep purple pucker that smolders just at the horizon.
As lips part, the remains of her rouge stain pink for the start of the day.

The purest light –
unmoved by daily follies (or exaltations) –
reaches first the trees.
Splintering shimmers tease your eyes:
these are the morning stars.
They play tricks on your mind
and suddenly you believe that all is possible.

Shadows take on a hue –
darkness is unavailable this early.
Sinister potential remains in bed.

Early air is crisp and unpolluted by intervention.
It is easier to breathe, assured that dawn is here.
Dew collects inside you without regard or damage, and you grow:
refreshed by it.

Yet, as any coy mistress,
the morning must take her exit.
As smoothly and as subtly that she came, she will fade away.
She becomes but another stranger in the crowd,
unrecognized until she is beckoned more.