dawn

 

When I awaken early

from the pre-dawn light

and reluctantly rise (before the rest),

I look at what surrounds me; 

I lay my eyes against objects simple and profound

and write a poem with my eyes and what they see. 

When backlit clouds prism rays into every shade of blue and pink and yellow;

When bare pine branches reach down

to frame sections of an astounding, undigestible sky,

I am reminded that, although
this has already been described--there are no new words to use--
somehow each dawn is original and surprising and unthought.

When I awaken early to have the new day's light fall upon me
and am given the chance to follow its caress on rock and stream and branch,
it stokes my burning, crazy love for all that is pure and good in the world.

I exist within the dream and idea of untouched woodland,
of hidden watersheds deep in the hills;
I match the dawn's incandescence with the joy of finding home.