And how shall we speak of the morning?,

after a long night, of dreams and sweats and terror,

and what could be more comforting,

than to declare what the day holds for us?

For the day is a brand new and sweet thing.

It holds connection.

And sunlight.

And a walk in the woods,

And a photo of a flower,

And the love of an animal,

And a hand to hold,

And something to create,

And something to want,

And a page in a book,

And a song on the Ipod,

And a hand to hold,

And a friend to see,

And a dinner to make,

with cauliflower and garlic.

And the long night will fold,

like a blanket, with the corners turned

and melt away, like the mist on the hill,

when the sun comes up,

and the light kisses the shadow,

and makes love to the night,

and puckers its lips so softly,

and blows it away.

The day is our poem.