Just before the light of day,
before the rising of the world,
gripped in silence, darkness, shame,
there the rolling dawn unfurls.
She breathes the chill of night away.
It fades to navy, purple, flame.
There the morning song resumes,
beneath the twilight of the day
and waking trees and yawning streams.
The meadow needn’t fear her dreams.
She sings the dawn, the rising sun,
and Life begins–again.