Dawn in Wartime

Sunrise tumbling in like a surf,
A foam of petals, curling thousands, lightly crumbling
Away into light.
Waking to this, how could the eyes hold
The shape of night's barren island, the cold cliffs
Climbed in sleep, how
Recall the burned sore scabby
Face of the world?
Into that sea of light the spirit waded
Like a young child at morning on the beach,
Saw only those giant combers, soft as roses,
That mothy spume unfeathering into air.
Lingered there, as a child lingers
To smooth bastions of whitest sand,
To finger shells brighter than dogwood flowers,
To stand, quietly,
Watching the immense marvel of morning
Rolling toward him all its uncreated hours.

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