a rising dawn

with baited breath

held way deep in our lungs 

we watch for the knuckles of dawn on the horizon-

our sightline so intent so intense it speckles, blurs 

a finger pointed at a twinkling thing -

“there- that there!-

Could it be so?”

afraid to miss even the slightest glimmer of beginning - we scan, ever on

craning our necks 

aching to see the crackle, the sizzle, of 

Light.

/ 

after all this time after all this night

my neck aches and my fingers tire

but i scan the horizons for that rose tipped dawn rising above the midnight darkness

and after all this time after all this night

i think I’m beginning to wonder -

if perhaps it is the hope itself, 

that is the very thing that sustains us.