Already the day has sprung from bright to grey
going the wrong way and too fast
I want the quiet yellow spring light to last
not surrender by mid morning to dregs of winter slate.
8 am an uncertain voice leaves a message
too early for acknowledgment or reply
that was the hour for the last dream
the snuggle against dawnbreak's parting chill
too soon to begin the struggle with loss
and tony expectations
the hour after the bird's first song
just before the children swarm toward containment
and cars of workers push their way
toward indifferent metal desks
today I heard the geese honk
once more
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