Ode to Morning

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Ode to Morning

O Morning—
you arrive not with thunder
but with a hush,
pouring light like golden breath
across the waiting earth.

Your dew is a quiet gospel
beneath my feet,
your warmth a whisper
unfastening yesterday’s weight.

No ink spilled
could shape what passed—
a lantern dimmed,
a path of illusions,
castles built from longing
and dust.

But in your stillness,
I see—
not with eyes,
but with the soul’s slow awakening.
The lies I once loved
fade like frost
under your gaze.

You redraw me—
gently, without sorrow.
Not broken,
but becoming.

Now I rise
to meet you without fear,
my wounds unfolding
into something tender,
true.

Let my pen be filled
with your quiet light,
not sorrow.
Let it write
in the ink of wind,
of rain,
of mercy.

O Morning—
you teach me not to weep,
but to listen—
and begin again.

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