those poets and their sunrises

(ywp is like the sunrise)

washed in watercolor above the sleeping world

enchantingly illuminatory

& strawberry melting into orange creamsicle. if you pay

close attention, it never really ends

merely turns wispy blue for a moment &

returns in the opposite ombre. it comes back

every morning

maybe it sees something poetic in the rustle of the autumn leaves.

(or the poets gazing wide-eyed at the reddish blur

forgetting to write anything down) before you give up

on anything whisper your wishes at dawn (scream them too,

for good measure, the neighbors won't care) into the

brightening sky & maybe think about

the sunrise and all the ones you've seen. (all the ones you want

to see, darling, wish for a thousand more new beginnings) 

sunrises are like the first draft of the story

that will become your day. your life.

write a poem, for heaven's sake. put it somewhere safe,

the roots of a mangrove or the second chamber of your heart

or the young writer's project just after sunrise.

(and the poet in the sun picks up their ballpoint pen

to write down the silhouettes of the mountains

before we can wake)