Can I feel tenderly towards the morning, if not for my lover?
The sunrise hanging low and near, I step outside to greet it
cross-armed in his jacket, keeping my heat close.
I leave my jilted feelings. I leave my lover’s peaceful sleep.
My sigh is a lovelorn song, and the white fog of it
circles the early winter forest like a searching bird.
The sun, at least, has a little still to give me,
has a little left for everyone: it comes all this way
for the sparse leaves of the evergreens, imparting
all its life and spark, and still it saves
this very last drop of itself, gleaming and pure
just for catching golden in my eyelashes.
Can you believe it? The sun comes all this way for me!
I strain to watch the light. It trembles in my view then breaks
apart in beams of color, glinting wings unfurled.
Burning yellow center the mothhead,
now the sun and I are face to face.
Too bright for eyes, and both of us too beautiful.
Returning to the window, I watch my lover, seeking.
His face is soft and creased like folded bedthings,
so faultless in his sleep. The white, bare branches catch the sun
and they simply are hands, they plainly say I want to hold your hand
bound in skies they’ll never touch but going on
pained and bold and reaching to receive
whatever the sun
can give. Oh, yes—
whatever the sun can give.
