Six a.m. on February Twelfth

The day you rise to light, 

shadow-trees mark the brightening.

Beyond the window of a sleeping room,

a demarcation,

snow to rock, brush to sky,

back lit to the west,

clouds feather pink, 

then grey.

In the kitchen

incandescent bulbs

flame the action of morning.

Replicated in glass,

they color the outside black.

You know though, to look behind,

past the darkened living room,

through a picture window,

where ashen light grows warmer,

the street, the stonewalls visible.

An onlooker to pastel morning,

you rejoice in the verdict,

a grateful witness

to nature's rhythm, 

the relief of lengthening days.