Each day, the dawn reconstitutes our world.
Navy blue shades into lilac and gold,
reversing evening lights, and we are hurled
out of dreams, into stories yet untold.
What weather ticks against the window pane
or streams in as urgently as birdsong?
What internal turbulence might remain
from a conversation yesterday, strong
enough to shape, in answer, an insight,
or push us toward a bedrock truth at last?
Often stumbling, night-blind, we move toward light
each day we live, however overcast.
Dawn brings a form of storm as yet unwrit,
blowing in to see what we’ll make of it.
Today’s poem is an attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet.
HAPPY SHAKESPEARE’S BIRTHDAY!
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