Waiting for Daybreak
WAITING FOR DAYBREAK
It is not yet what I would call
today, the sun not yet piercing
black clouds in a black sky
the garden only a memory
of brilliance, a recollection
of color and movement
a charming tale told a child
when rain has kept her
trapped inside with old toys.
I stand upon the night-cloaked
garden deck facing east, my eyes
straining to mark the exact second
light occurs at the mountain ridge,
the moment objects real or dreamed
return to focus. With a full heart
I pray that moment comes, hope
dawn is as I remember it, filled
with the sound of wings lifting.
I always prefer sunrise to sunset, a beginning instead of a end. Maybe that's why I like East coast beaches.
I grew up on a farm where you got up before the sun to feed the cows. Always an early riser - love dawn. But poop out by dusk.