Praying at Dawn
At dawn, a ruckus of ravens
tangles into my dreams
and wakes me into the light
of a violet sugar morning.
This house, wraps its wings around me
quiet and smooth as aged leather.
My body, still sweet from the lavender
soap of last night’s bath,
sings itself
into whatever may come.
I listen for the jazz-soul
soundtrack of my life.
And offer the same morning prayer
as the yellow iris,
the budding peach tree
and the un-mown grass.
I'm glad to see a new writing here; and it's 6:45 as I read "Praying at Dawn"; I like it; a lovely description of entering a new day.
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