To my children
Forward is the chance to see my
daughter and my son grow older.
Forward is the order of the seasons:
winter, spring and summer.
Forward wakes before the dawn, and
forward makes its way back home.
Forward sees the setting sun
and looks beyond.
----
Dawn gently breaks,
not as a sudden thing:
the sun
of a day’s ontogeny
does not surprise,
nor does it sound
a loud awakening
or slap
the first breath out of me
or shine
hard light accusingly
into my naked eyes.
Dawn is the dark’s
slow unraveling,
the day’s revealing rise.
Time dawns on me:
I am inclined
to set alarms at night
and run
cold showers when I wake.
I want to face the day
before it faces me.
I need light
to put
my clothes on properly,
but usually long
before the break
of dawn I’m on my way,
letting dawn
distinguish those who work
from those with time
to play.
I am determined to beat the day,
though dawn,
and in dawn’s easy pace,
is when
and how I ought to rise,
letting nature have its say
instead of doing
it my own way, chasing
shadows
to the next horizon,
courting ghosts
of healthy, wealthy, wise
to my dying day;
despite the dawn,
I keep on facing
life the other way.
But dawn keeps on
and on
that day of final rest,
if I
should wake before I die
I pray the rising sun
will shake
me from my sleepiness
and let
me see the morning sky
wash over me
once more before
my daily dawns are done,
before
my final east to west
and the pull of a setting sun.
----
Forward is the chance to see my
daughter and my son grow older.
Forward is the order of the seasons:
winter, spring and summer.
Forward wakes before the dawn, and
forward makes its way back home.
Forward sees the setting sun
and looks beyond.
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