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.
