Liturgically, a little early yet, but isn’t that how it works with most mornings?

 

Straining her neck and peeking out through

falling dark is nosy morning, thirsty for attention.

She rubs her eyes with hands, cold but certain,

wisps of cloudless fingers still too stiff to touch.

 

The early creatures forage for their dew reward

and only find hard, stale barrenness already gleaned.

Their efforts stymied, they turn their thoughts up

to sky and the grey expanse of day.

 

Leftover stars, eyes ancient and well-rehearsed,

hide now behind a bigger light, too broad to

pierce with such weak particles. Stroke my hair

with your bristling breath and leave the shivering to me.

 

Patience, patience now dear dawn of day,

for soon your rising will tell a different story.

No more counting minutes in centuries –

soon, your breast shall boast the brightest Eastern star.