Coming of Dawn in the Suburbs

There comes a new day,
and it begins in the night
as the blackbird’s watch
affirms solidarity
to his avian community
from two a.m.
until the chorus comes on duty close to four,
not far from the beginning of the end
of darkness and this night
as I lie in my bed
and watch through windows facing east,
glad to hear and see the new arrive,
knowing I will rise
when the sun comes up
to warm the feet of the dead
— all bound to their designated graves of hope
as I am tied to endings and beginnings —
each of us awaiting
the graces of salvation.

I prepare my tea
and softly walk
to the old garden chair facing to the east,
hidden from all
except the dewy eyes of raindrops
hovering on hydrangea leaves.
My eyes, too, are filled with tears
formed by questions,
doubts,
and a longing to believe
there is no futility in faith.

I sip my tea,
stretch my legs
in front of me.
My toes point to the sky;
I bare my soles
to the advent of warmth,
the light of this day’s sun.

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