Poetry at Dawn
When Morning Light Awakens Words and Dreams
The first light of dawn crept gently across the horizon, brushing the sky with shades of rose and gold. In the stillness of the hour, before the world fully awoke, a young poet named Elara sat by her window with an open notebook and a steaming cup of tea. The village outside was wrapped in silence—broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a waking bird.
For Elara, dawn was more than a time of day. It was a promise—a soft reminder that every ending carried a new beginning. She loved how the world seemed reborn each morning, washed clean of yesterday’s noise and dust. And in that quiet rebirth, she found the perfect rhythm for her thoughts, the purest ink for her emotions.
Her pen hovered over the page as she watched a ray of sunlight spill across her desk, turning her blank paper into a canvas of light. “What should I write today?” she whispered, smiling to herself. Words often arrived slowly, like shy guests waiting at her door, but she had learned to welcome them with patience.
Today, her thoughts drifted to dreams—those delicate threads woven through sleep that sometimes disappeared by morning. “Dreams,” she murmured, tasting the word. “They are the poetry of the night.” With that thought, she began to write.
Her poem spoke of stars fading as the sun rose, of silence transforming into song, and of hope awakening in the heart like light through a window. She wrote about the way dawn carried whispers of forgiveness, how it painted everything new, and how—if one listened closely enough—it sounded like a poem recited by the earth itself.
Each word flowed effortlessly, as though the morning breeze itself was guiding her hand. And for a moment, she felt an invisible connection between her heart and the horizon—between her breath and the light that spread across the sky.
As she paused to sip her tea, a soft breeze slipped through the window, carrying the scent of dew and jasmine. The village bell chimed in the distance, calling farmers to their fields and children to their morning chores. But Elara remained still, caught in that magical space between silence and sound.
Her cat, Luna, leapt softly onto the windowsill, curling beside her notebook. Elara chuckled and scratched behind its ears. “You’re my first audience,” she said. Luna purred in approval, blinking at the sunlight as if to say, What a fine performance it will be.
Elara reread her lines, tracing the ink with her finger. There was beauty, she thought, in watching the day unfold like a verse—each moment another stanza of existence. The laughter of a child outside, the flutter of wings, the glimmer of dew—all were part of life’s endless poem.
Suddenly, she felt an impulse to share what she had written. She tore the page gently from her notebook, folded it, and stepped outside. The air was cool, and the village street shimmered faintly in the golden light. She walked to the old oak tree near the crossroads—her favorite spot—and pinned the poem to its trunk with a small wooden clip.
She had done this many times before. Every morning, she left one poem for someone to find. Sometimes it was the baker who smiled when he read her verses about warmth and bread. Sometimes it was the young mother who paused on her way to fetch water, or the old shepherd who tucked her words into his coat pocket.
To Elara, poetry was a gift meant to be shared, like the light of dawn itself.
As she turned back toward her home, she glanced once more at the sunrise. The sky now blazed with brilliance, and the world had fully awakened. Yet in her heart, she still carried the peace of those first quiet moments.
That morning, as the sun climbed higher, the poet’s simple verse fluttered gently in the wind—its ink shining in the light. Someone passing by stopped to read it, smiled softly, and whispered, “Beautiful.”
And so, once again, dawn had fulfilled its promise—awakening not only words, but hearts.
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Whispers of Winter ❄️
Whispers of Winter When Frost Painted the Earth and Warm Hearts Lit the Season The whisper of winter drifted near, Soft as a sigh that hearts could hear. Through silver clouds, the north winds flew, Bringing dreams dressed in sparkling dew. The trees stood still in robes of white, Their branches kissed by crystal light. Each leaf asleep beneath the snow, While stars above began to glow. In a quiet village, calm and small, Snowflakes danced and seemed to call. They twirled through air in soft embrace, And brushed each cheek with gentle grace. Children’s laughter filled the skies, As flakes fell soft before their eyes. They built tall men of snow and cheer, And crowned them kings of the passing year. A boy named Rehan watched the scene, His eyes alight with winter’s sheen. He loved the hush that nights would bring, When frost would hum and lanterns sing. But deep within, a longing stayed, For warmth beyond the fire’s shade. His father gone to lands unknown, His mother waiting all alone. Each evening by the window’s glow, They’d watch the flakes drift down below. And though the wind was cold and wide, Their love burned bright, a flame inside. Then came a night both calm and deep, When stars above refused to sleep. They shimmered bright through midnight blue, As if the heavens whispered too: “Hold on, young heart, though skies may freeze, For warmth is found in memories. Beyond the storm, beyond the snow, The seeds of spring already grow.” Rehan smiled, his eyes turned high, To constellations crowding the sky. He felt his father’s voice once more— A gentle echo through the door. “Be strong, my boy, the world is wide, But love will always be your guide.” And with that whisper, faint yet near, The night grew calm, the stars drew clear. He ran outside, his breath a cloud, The moon above both soft and proud. He built a lantern out of glass, And placed it shining in the grass. Its golden glow cut through the cold, A tiny sun the dark could hold. Neighbors saw its tender gleam, And came to join his silent dream. Soon every window lit with flame, And laughter through the village came. The snow still fell, but hearts were warm, Together safe through winter’s storm. The frost became a painted art, On every roof, on every heart. And though the world was still and white, It pulsed with love and gentle light. By morning’s rise, the hills would gleam, Like silver stitched in heaven’s seam. And Rehan knew — as all hearts do — That winter’s chill can’t dim what’s true. For warmth is not in hearths alone, But in the love that we have grown. And when the winds of winter sigh, They tell of hearts that never die. So let it snow, let night be long, For even cold can birth a song. In every frost, a spark will stay — To guide lost souls along their way. And when the seasons shift once more, And springtime knocks at winter’s door, The world will bloom — but still recall, The whisper that once blessed it all. For frost may fade and stars may flee, But love outlasts eternity. And through each flake, each frozen art, Winter will whisper — from heart to heart.
By Muhammad Saad 2 months ago in Poets
Center Stage with Gina C.
*** I'm keen to republish the interviews I did for my series with Vocal creators. It's been a few years and I thought it might be nice to revisit these wonderful conversations. I'll be releasing them one at a time for a few weeks/months.
By Heather Hubler6 days ago in Interview
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