On the sunrise plain, a creamsicle sky, muted
smoky tangerine topping, the view I first see
upon opening my sleepy eyes
to peek out
from under the edge
of the mindfully stitched quilted coverlet
in a frosty winterlike bedroom.
Piling kindling on top of yesterday’s
crinkled front news page, the first sparks begin
flaming to life, warming hands,
curling tiny hairs that frame my face
in a stove older than either me or the house.
Sitting quietly nestled in a hand knit
fuzzy afghan with a cup of Earle Grey
I watch the dark grey sky
just this moment void
of last night’s sparkling stars.
The early morning sky welcomes the dawn.
Is today’s show more spectacular than
yesterdays’ neon glow?
Peering toward the invisible riverside
thru layers and layers of leafless oaks
brittle, stiff branch arms
of the forest whose shadows
danced over the land in the moonlight.
Vibrant, fiery oranges, hot yellows,
pure as twinkling snowflakes.
Light turns colors to soft pastels;
yellow, lilac, fading into
baby blue, then to muted grey.
A glowing orb,
one perfect ray,
brilliant, shooting upward
like the flash of fireworks
annually set off from the island dock
or the barge downtown
in the Kennebec River.
Sky fades now to the color
of a pale dusty yellow rose today.