I try not to deny
there are others
who like me
who relish
the intimacy
of sunrise.
But every dark morning to myself
makes me think, over time,
for a few stolen moments
I exist in the world.
That dusky dawning sky sees me there
ruminating as I revel
in its wee hours
most others (dis)miss.
Sleep does not compare
to the sun's awakening;
peeling back the purple sheet,
lightening up
and stirring the ashy cirrus
lit only by our clandestine routine.
It is between us
that watch the sunset,
contentedly,
winking when the green flash
sparks oohs and ahhhs,
sometimes
called inspiration
in others.
Yet it tells me, with envy,
our tryst will continue
tomorrow
as soon as
I rise
for our sub rosa occasion,
the best part of mourning
the day.
the best part of mourning
the day.
Image of painting By T.C. Steele, Sunrise (1847 - 1926) (American) (Artist, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
