Verge of Submersion

It's too early for the dawn to know my name, to pull my pillow off my eyes and contemplate my still sleep. The dawn is off pulling carts in other nations, dragging mud on wheels and letting an orange glow glaze already hard at work hands She is too busy with the backs of whales, slicking their skin to shine at the surface in the middle of a morning water spout She too has to tend to sleepy flowers, strengthened of stem from a good night's sleep, ready to shed their diamond dew dust and breathe into sunlight again. So, who am I that the dawn should know? Unless she realizes my need to see you~ catching your peace with the light in my hand to wishes yet dreamed, unfulfilled Perhaps she knows that the start of the day is the first cast into a still pond, the first bite of communication between the bustle, with what's underneath in currents, always moving, always on the verge of submersion, just waiting to be caught. Perhaps if I move the hair from your eyes, kiss the tip of your perfect kissing nose, the dawn will know us both, and break the waning night to an orange we can taste, and breathe and walk into awake.