Lying in bed
Staring out the window
Slit-eyeing the dawn,
Which seems shy at first
Pale and damp
As if it is working up the nerve
To approach
To show itself
Wishing to ask the night if it
Might like this first dance.
Then some slow moments later
It gusts and rains nervously
Adolescent
Growing so full of itself
That it is now undeniable,
Still gray but emboldened
Filling with pallor
And blushed with a touch of cheeky color:
The new day dances,
Wearing a carnation boutonniere.
-P. Sanderson
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