And so it begins: this greige gleam and economy,
this singular, smooth, silent, sweep.
A pearled page turning in a tome of darkness.
Always, it is the inevitable melding I await, liquid
lilac and spun steel puddlings of sea and sky.
This is why I watch, what I need most:
the ephemeral pause at day’s first light,
the circadian nuptial of two solitudes and
hope breathing pillowed silver through a realm
that becomes too loud, too bright, too fast.
