She wakes each morning
In those tender moments foregoing the sun's ascension,
When the low, humble glow of dawn light
Trickles into the world.
The sapling and the sprawling oak;
The weathered, white-washed fence;
Widespread weeds and unruly blades of gra**:
They are all unspoiled, newly-born of the darkness.
Beseeched and implored from the night's womb
By the distant screech of a sole crow,
The rousing and squawking of young squirrels in nests.
The world is wide-eyed and guileless,
Waiting patiently for the tarnish of time-pa**.
She too remains free from stain and soil.
The day has yet to recognize its own nakedness
And hide in shame under a ponderous, sober cloak.
She imagines that it is always morning on the earth
inherited by the righteous.