a new day's promise
I like to watch. . .
I study the sketches of lines
life has clawed into the sky,
it feels like there's an artist
who carefully then dabs color onto the trees,
one cautious step at a time,
as Robert Frost wrote, "nature's first green is gold,"
there's a soft tentativeness that builds each globe of glory
making itself before me on the hillside,
I have never developed the landscape painter within me,
and I am in awe of those who dare the attempt
to echo what every branch, every tree,
shows us, proudly, of their becoming themselves
in the fullness that is Spring,
there is a hope that all that is young
wishes to find and express
so that tomorrow is better than today,
despite all that seeks to blight such hope,
an Indigenous prayer to the spirit who comes out of the east
every day reminds me to have light in my word,
to appreciate the promise of a new day,
the denial of sorrow that starting over
releases anew unto the world,
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