Those first threads of dawn
as tender and brittle as
the glassy bones of trout
feather the litter of eaves and trees,
speaks in that first tender tongue
pressed like water warming
to the restless explorations of the mouth.
It is too early for beginnings,
only the stirrings of birds and
the exchange of lights and fumes
cars are always recklessly engaged in.
Beneath the chill sky and the laundered stars
it is this call to colors
the lashing of lives like flags
while blossoms explode and
silence sizzles, oil on a skillet,
the collaboration of coffee and
that fragile shimmer,
the waking face of this world
you love to the roots,
a notion that your name has meaning
before the real cold settles and
the day is another parcel,
currency awaiting wasting.