Sunrise, 17 December 2006

Faint violet on the eastern horizon
seen through a tracery of dark tree branches
slow brightening of the sky.
And the song of a wren
the feeder is empty - squirrels won out;
the wren sings
tweetle, tweetle, tweetle.
A carol of another kind
calling me awake on this sleepy Sunday morning
in a season of rushing
and buying and wanting
and missing;
in a season of remembering and giving and hope,
against a persistent gloom.
Darkness has its beauty, its gifts
lights more piercing against the blackness of deep night
but the morning’s growing light
signals another day
another chance.
The wren sings
keep looking -
it is there
before you
and
within.