poem: early morning

[trialia]

She stays me here: "wait outside."
Why should I want to go inside, when out,
the sun rises to illuminate the day,
light and shade and colour
breaking from one into many?

It's cold, but it's beautiful,
here in the open air;
the birds play and call
to each other,
awake at last.

It's nothing new, she'd say,
but every morning is new
when it feels as though you have never
seen it like this: daybreak,
the open heart of the world

that you're sure
you never saw
until this moment:

grace.