The Birth of Day

It was barely dawn;

a narrow band of crimson stretched across the eastern horizon.

The reflective silence in the pristine morning,

when even the Chickadee slumbers, and I knew you were there.

The glacial brilliance of a brimming moon shone in a frigid, frostbitten dark.

Steam rolling across rooftops, pooling the warmth of sleeping hearths

in an offering to the brisk delivery of day.

Sluggish shapes converging to complete a daily ritual,

awaiting the yellow buggy, which will carry them to school.

I beheld the whole scene, through the kitchen porthole,

with the ease of slippers and a steaming mug.