How many dawns have I seen?
There was one in Tennessee over a bridge and a lake, seen from a canoe.
Another from a fishing pier in the Yucatan:
so many dawns with water, and scattered sunshine.
Some with dolphins.
One spring, Don and I spent a night behind the union hall
talking about the world and our hearts
(mine wayward, his congenitally large)
and Oceans we might see.
The sun rose that morning with no thunder.
I didn't kiss him and there was no movement of earth or sky,
only clouds of exhaust from a nearby highway.
And when he died not long after (oh yes—death and the sunrise)
that morning became the essence of all mornings in this world.
Mornings we sleep through.
People we ignore on the street.
Poems we forget to write.
So when I stop my car on a busy interstate to watch an eastern light,
You may shake your fists or honk as you will.
I am learning to pay attention to this very dawn.