Six in the Morning
Six in the morning. February. Coffee.
I stand at the cold porch door and look out on
the brooding sapphire of the foredawn sky
pregnant with deep blue light that pales and shines
toward the horizon, where the tops of trees
like scriptures in an inscrutable alphabet
imprint themselves on the margin of the day.
Stones in the neighbouring graveyard
begin to whiten and become distinct;
traffic percolates through nearby streets:
sparrows sing crisp matins in the chill.
There is a gentle splendour in these hours
before the sun blares and commuters rush,
before St. Lucy’s bells ring Angelus.
Yesterday marked the first day in a week
I did not see your face or hear your voice.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2017-06-09 at 04:55
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