When dawn approaches with the usual palette
on this January morning,
sky flaunts willful, windborne clouds,
resistant to all
but shades of gray.
At my window I return to coffee and notebook,
like the fisherman
intent on what hides in the sea.
his and mine and the fishes,
even the rhythm of unborn poems.
But while fish and poems swim
in secret places,
the fisherman and I are caught.
For a minute
sky accepts the brush of dawn.
The hint of color snags
me in my bed,
the fisherman on the beach.
We both look up.
For a minute between slate and silver,
all is washed the palest pink,
and this sky is just what we need.
Title from “Revelation” by Jenny George