this morning is all rose and white
and smelling wet, like melting snow
one more nocturnal morning,
where we
(the supposed penitent)
wander like ghosts, transversing the
barrier
between starry or cold nights
and sunrises where we can still see our breath
we recite morning prayers
on our swollen knees,
asking God for the things we can't live without...
ironic, really. if God were to be one of those things
that we just had to have.
we could beg for God if we wanted to.
is there devotion in the sunrise?
a sunny face of renewal,
perpetual motion of these days
like a caricature of forgotten creation
God is all twinkly-lights and vanilla-scented
sweet and shiny,
all sunrise and well-lit,
and clean, we are sure of it.
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