Dawn

Dawn gently breaks,
    not as a sudden thing:
the sun
    of a day’s ontogeny
        does not surprise,
nor does it sound
    a loud awakening
or slap
    the first breath out of me
or shine
    hard light accusingly
        into my naked eyes.
Dawn is the dark’s
    slow unraveling,
        the day’s revealing rise.

Time dawns on me:
I am inclined
    to set alarms at night
and run
    cold showers when I wake.
        I want to face the day
before it faces me.
    I need light
to put
    my clothes on properly,
but usually long
    before the break
        of dawn I’m on my way,
letting dawn
    distinguish those who work
        from those with time
            to play.

I am determined to beat the day,
though dawn,
    and in dawn’s easy pace,
is when
    and how I ought to rise,
        letting nature have its say
instead of doing
    it my own way, chasing
shadows
    to the next horizon,
courting ghosts
    of healthy, wealthy, wise
        to my dying day;
despite the dawn,
    I keep on facing
        life the other way.

But dawn keeps on
and on
    that day of final rest,
if I
    should wake before I die
        I pray the rising sun
will shake
    me from my sleepiness
and let
    me see the morning sky
wash over me
    once more before
        my daily dawns are done,
before
    my final east to west
        and the pull of a setting sun.