To be able to greet the dawn
with juice and joy
is a wondrous thing.
At times like these I feel like the Universe
is an excited child
pouncing onto my mattress and shouting,
Don’t you know that Christ comes to us
Then why should any day not be Christmas?
The time has no number.
All the machines in my room
sit, ticking and marking their intervals
but I heed them not, for
time has no number.
Time has the rising swell of the dawn,
that joyful spring tide of light.
Time has grey-blue pastel gradients
the morning clouds paint their laughter
at the sun’s fire
with the colors of tropical fruit.
Time has me
hung on her bosom
her hand strokes my temple,
sings a soothing song.
Time calls me to rest in her comfort
and to trust her
as she carries me.
Can you transpose the vibrations of light
to something more suited to my human ears?
I am convinced that the dawn is a symphony,
sun, sky, and clouds all playing
in heaven’s great chamber
and earth the audience.
A golden crescendo is building
just over and through those green leaves.
The clouds hold a pure white fermata
as the mountains hold their breath
waiting to rise in applause as
the sun strikes them,
casting the funkels of green brown pinked
sunlight back at the sky.
The flatirons give a standing ovation
on every clear day
but today great grey mutes
prevent such raucous clapping.
It must be an adagio
and I could tell, but no one has transposed
the light for me
into strains my heart could follow.
I wrote all three poems on the morning of 28 August 2011, as I curled up in the basket chair on my porch and watched the dawn.