Golden Hours

The coruscate gleam of esurient dawn

breaks the hold from the marcid night

filling the world with empyrean beauty

I cafune the blades of grass

letting their dew drop crowns slide

through my fingers

like quicksilver

I watch the early blue jay catch his worm,

then fly,

back to the impregnability of the Cherokee dogwood,

blooming a blushing red

along with the pink sky,

as if she feels guilty for feeling lonely,

or, perhaps, she is simply grateful

for the company

I soak in the ephemeral serenity

these golden hours are pyrrhic victories

The floor boards creek under the weight of tiny feet

the coffee pot gurgles,

a sight, that it too, is now, fully, awake.

I gaze at the gilded sky one moment more,

thanking her for her loveliness,

and I pray I can face my day

with as much open grace as she.