I wonder at the shy light
of morning that sneaks out
slowly from the edges of
the darkness and the new day.
Like it is trying to hold back.
Light that so gently crawls
at first and then harshly
gallops itself upon the scene
in full and all out display.
Like there had been no night.
That first light and its crescendo
is what interests me at first rising.
It draws back the curtains on the
mystery of having one more day.
Like I might live forever.
That light. That new light, even
wet with rain, is a hope for yet
another day. Another day to conjure
words into poems and live audaciously.
Like that is all there is.
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