Daffodil Dawn

All is silent, save the seagul's cry. Somber blue,
the gray eyed morn sallow sleeps upon the sea,
aross the charcoal sky.
But east, eastward winks, blinks and bends
its splendid brow. Its creases colored,
crested clear, wrinkles wreathed with pink
and blushing red, rose red rush of waking,
shaking off that sacred sleep.

Yellow yawn, canary calm. Stretching
dressing, daffodil dawn.
An instant stayed,
colors fade and dim;
All, all things wane, waning wait, await,
the full and restless rise of infant dawn.

Look!
The eastward lily lifts its laden lockes,
reveals its face and fingers fair!
Like that first unbeckoned burst,
that dewy dappled drip of crimson bloom,
begotten, born and glaring garnet
rich against September jade.

This white and golden blossomed orb,
casting calm its primrose praise;
Cantelope crowned,
split and dripping, drip and dripping,
all its juice and all its joy.

A sigh.
Sky-sung, harp string strung;
Day has young, crawled and come,
well come, welcome.