Dawn is not a time to despair.

Water seeps out of the morning, beads 
onto yellowed grasses, summer-dried
lengths wizened rigid
with thirst.

Droplets merge in the mist, drawn
into unsown centres: fragile spheres
cling to the edges
of blades.

The first wind breathes:
a quiet across the silence.

The green world wakes:
a claret flush rises.

In slight and countless forms, the sun
hovers before its reflection
scatters as earth's
own stars.

Mated mourning doves coo:
a day has come; 

night's unreachable fires will drown
below a whitening sea. The dew will slip
out of existence, lost
in a breeze.

Knees to wet ground,
fingers sifting grass,
rhythms of the open cool my skin.

I will not close my eyes to cry;

not for the dewdrops' beauty or how they shine,
but for their gathering
of the light.