Dawn

Dawn is still far away and pondering her entrance.
She is knitting golds, waiting for the Night to end his quiet escapades of rebirth.

And bearing low he settles on cool haunches and waits, under the arches of insight,
where the distinction between lightness and dark is only time
He, the son of cycles, ushers in the sound vision.

In the shade are slow sounds of steam and metal from years past
particles of dust, electric and so far away, roving.

My window tells me so.

Darkness now hush and temperate, atmospheric, divides spherical and ascends thin-spun into the grace of my window, beckoning light.

Good night my loves.