Thin lines of smoke from roofs rose by
As if with pencils dark were drawn
And webbed their graphite tapers high
To greet the violaceous dawn.
As one by one night’s embers died,
Replaced by early morning’s flame,
The milk-dipped moon, begrudging, sighed
And bowed as up the fair Sun came.
And in these treasured minutes few
As night surrendered to the day;
Before the sky turned jewel-blue
The clouds put on a vain display:
A fantastical drapery
Of silky whites, of gold-laced creams,
Which simmered oh so languorously,
And bathed in sunlight’s honeyed beams.
And as I stopped, and stood in awe
Of this ambrosial morning scene,
I wondered why not many more
For Sunrise would eschew their dreams.