Absolute Sunrise

It’s early, too early for things to kick off,

But the light has invaded in force from the east.

A vivid yellow slant marks a part of the door

Of our garage—why slanted, that light? Who knows?

—while all else remains in shade and waits in a

Kind of immobility as if this yard

Were not moistly alive, but were instead painted

On Reality’s translucent canvas and

Represented mere drips and drabs and smears of

Primordial color to indicate, to point,

Rather than to mark some kind of substantiality.

Tall hosta blooms, delicate blue, hang like bells

And wait for the ringer who sleeps still in some

Narrow Quasi Modo garret hidden somewhere

And swirled about by dreams. Not a leaf stirs, not

Low, not high. Silence reigns in this absolute

Sunrise until, suddenly, a single bird’s

Keen tweet reminds me that the day, officially

already on, will soon disrupt this magic pause.