Just before the light of day
before the rising of the world
gripped in silence, darkness, shame
there the rolling dawn unfurls.
She breathes the chill of night away.
It fades to navy, purple, flame.
There the morning song resumes,
beneath the twilight of the day
and waking trees and yawning streams.
The meadow needn’t fear her dreams.
She sings the dawn, the rising sun,
and Life begins – again.
©2018 Sarah Elizabeth Moore
From the shores of Wicket Lake,