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

warming hands.

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.

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