Daylight

In the early morning fuzz, a smoky inhale of life the lamppost is lit and the trees are just waking up Five Forty Two Am: the eyes of the sky are grayly I hold my stave high as I begin my very first poem Bushes and creeks containing tiny quakes of light piercing through a silent heaven, I feel alright Sleeping in the room next door he is unaware of the awakened altered state that claims me Down the path of memories I go alone and safe standing behind a closed window, vouchsafe ! Smoke blankets the city on this Friday morning I can't touch the fire, I am only its town crier as I write about the residue of the wildfires, I can see the peeling back of its slight and know instinctively, It is daylight....