Predawn, Without

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for Noble tranquility...

The wind,
a poetry brushing
my skin.
Ferns painting
ankles
in cool dew
on a hiker’s trek.

The stars,
arranged or
understood as
arranged...
a song not
yet forgot.
An arrangement of
notes, of diacriticals,
of arpeggios,
awaiting the blushing
washout.

My arms, open to
the lovely dark,
the smokily smudged
pre-dawn...
Tea vapours’ tendrily 
hand caresses tenderly
my nostril, my 
hungry Palace of
Intent.

She sleeps,
Somewhere. 
Or rises.
Somewhere, that
accursèd ‘not here.’
She starts a shower,
she starts her coffee,
she starts her car. 
She starts her day.

These arms are never
so Empty, so Open
as in these epoch
hours before the Light.

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