As I wake,
pre-dawn light glimmers through the curtains,
and my room is dressed in soft hues.
I draw the blinds and,
golden ribbons dance before my eyes,
as I stare into the thick of it,
the picture begins to clear.
Flaxen streams,
pale green hues,
browns and greys shimmer.
My only thought,
It's so beautiful.
The rhythmic sobs of rain pound,
a gentle song for the world,
accompanied only by thin streams,
that slide down the window.
The weak glow filters down,
through darkened clouds,
and into the mourning downpour.
It shines lazily,
distorted,
twisted,
into a grey likeness.
It's splayed across my wall as I stare,
up,
up,
up,
into the pale abyss.
And I think,
It's so beautiful.
White light beats down on asphalt,
blazing far above,
a beacon gleams,
not a cloud in sight,
not an ounce of respite,
not a trace of the gentle golden streams,
that had shone hours before.
A shadow dashes across the sky,
a bird swoops into the tree I stand beneath,
the bird flits from branch to branch,
hiding in the only sanctuary,
I watch, intrigued,
as the bird calls out a wry song,
I look away and merely listen.
It was a song not meant for my ears,
but I hear it anyway.
I stare up,
into the blistering heat,
into the blue expanse,
into the sparse white,
And I think,
It's all so beautiful.
