Dawn is not a time to despair.
Water seeps out of the morning, beads
onto yellowed grasses, summer-dried
lengths wizened rigid
with thirst.
Droplets merge in the mist, drawn
into unsown centres: fragile spheres
cling to the edges
of blades.
The first wind breathes:
a quiet across the silence.
The green world wakes:
a claret flush rises.
In slight and countless forms, the sun
hovers before its reflection
scatters as earth's
own stars.
Mated mourning doves coo:
a day has come;
night's unreachable fires will drown
below a whitening sea. The dew will slip
out of existence, lost
in a breeze.
Knees to wet ground,
fingers sifting grass,
rhythms of the open cool my skin.
I will not close my eyes to cry;
not for the dewdrops' beauty or how they shine,
but for their gathering
of the light.
