Winter Dawn's Praise

Sometimes the Dawn's light comes not in rose hues.

He works His way aloft at Night's shift's end

Or climbs the vaulted stairwell at Day's fresh bend

While clad in robes of chill and twilight blue.

He edges, imperceptibly, at first.

He doesn't crack, but grows and pushes forth:

Quiet crescendo slightly right of North.

In dark, His face spills, flowing light; breath's burst.

The winter's Dawn is insulated; snow

Accumulations azure, without sound.

I shared with morn my song; no finch I found.

A gift I sing to winter Dawn's ice flows.

The season's cold, still Dawn I shall revere;

With Dawn's goodwill I pass through storms severe.