This dawn does not bleed, as you did.
There is no hot red feathering outward
over an immense sky. This dawn
is pale, faint, pinched, contained. In this still, cold
quietude, there is yet an expansive
silent hope. The sky is clear, clean, and bright.
The broadness of what opens over us
is laced, lightly, with flecks of clouds,
like a garment trimmed with ribbons,
or a lighthearted comment edged
with laughter. Closer, small blade-winged birds
dart in twining airborne paths, stitching
graceful lazy loops and calm curls,
before returning to nest here,
in these short tough shrubs, close at hand,
singing short chirrups, contented queries.
We can call that joy, even if
it never blazes, or perhaps because.
for Karen D.
Rosefire Rising 