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| Image / Dhanush K |
Before the World Wakes
Morning lies quiet as an unwritten page.
The sky, a watercolor wash
of lavender and reluctant gold,
stretches over rooftops
like a shawl draped on a tired shoulder.
Leaves hang motionless,
thin green flags in a windless world,
while dew clings to grass
like a memory that refuses to fade.
A dog yawns by the fence,
his jaw cracking wide like a book
left open too long. The twitter of song birds
breaks the hush with a flurry of flutes,
notes rising like mist from a still pond.
The street is a hush of silence,
save for the soft swish of a broom
on a neighbor’s porch,
that slow, sacred act
of sweeping away stars.
My coffee steams in the mug,
bitter as regret, warm as yesterday.
A moth flutters near the screen,
wings catching light like tiny sails
on a sun-drenched sea.
Sprinkled with the dust of sleep
morning takes one long breath,
then opens its eyes.
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| Peter A. Witt |
Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for the Best of the Net award. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer. |
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