She Sings the Dawn

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,