Providence Dawn
by John Grey


These are the trees at dawn,
copper maples, russet oaks,
each a party to my exile,
I am removed from the land of my birth,
transformed, just for them;
pure as bells, lights colonize the sky,
shift stars from heaven to thoughts,
clear out the dread of night;
each moment encounters leaves
lolling in the wind,
clouds puffing up the hindmost,
acorns spinning, squirrels gagging on the goods;
as risen clocks surprise the slow world
into turning faster,
I am nothing but a lover of the dawn,
that slick access to the world outside myself,
the spreading, dazzling sun,
the overturned blue chalice of sky;
it’s another day;
days still are.






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