Dawn's Whispered Promise

He’s the first one up, barefoot and gold, shaking the sleep from the willows and the cold. 

No lightning or thunder, just a palm on the sill, turning the world’s grey engine to gold and still.

 He doesn’t demand a temple of stone; he’s more at home in the marrow and bone. He’s the warmth on the bricks where the lilies lean in,

 the slow, honeyed hum underneath a cat’s skin.

 A phenomenal ghost in the curls of the mist, giving the shadows a reason to exist. 

He’s the silent host of the morning’s blue tea, spilling his light like a gift to the sea. 

And when the day’s heavy and the shadows get long, 

he goes out in a crimson and violet song, tucking the hills in a blanket of copper, 

a gentle, shining cosmic clock-stopper…