Sunrise Sonnets

Actually, there's not a sonnet among them.  When we lived in Iowa, I often photographed the sky: we had such a beautiful, unobstructed view of daybreak and dusk.  Houses and electrical wires interfere with our view now.  (They bring to mind a line from one of Marilynne Robinson's novels - I think Gilead - in which she writes that mountains would be an impertinence, given Iowa's beautiful sky.)  But last week a particularly beautiful sunrise inspired me to attempt to capture the dawn in free verse.  In one of the college courses that I took, the professor would begin each class by reading a selection from Ted Kooser's Winter Morning Walks.  I remembered some of those lovely poems as I watched these wee hours of the morning.  

3.7.16

The stars held a carnival last night—

evidence of their twirling, furling, tilt-a-whirling,

and spherical music remains this morning:

mounds of pink and blue where the cotton candy stand was overturned,

lemonade pooling on the horizon.

But when the Sun's searchlight skims the sky,

all he finds are dusty clouds

kicked up by carousel horses

as they escaped.

3.8.16

Dawn donned a dress of clear blue

trimmed in rose,

dusted her cheeks,

and lit into the golden carriage of the sun,

leaving a string of frosty pearls

on the ground

in her haste.

3.9.16

He came

at first light

with a rose of lavender's blue

in full bloom.

3.10.16

I'm in the Sewer's room.

He stitches together smoky satin,

and purple silk streaked orange;

he plucks at clouds of fiberfill

and gently packs the gift he's made full,

then hands it to me:

this new day.

3.11.16

My Father gardens in the sky:

rows of poppies

give way to lilac hedges.  

Near the horizon dance daisies, pale and sweet.

He leads me down a lane lined with peach roses

and a path fringed with yellow daffodils, clear and bright,

before the Sunflower with it's fiery rays

blinds my sight.

3.12.16

Spawning salmon streak

through sky-blue water.

The man in the dusty suit

and cobalt and coral tie

nods his golden head

at the blushing day.

3.13.16

A single finch perches on the branch by the bird feeder;

at first light he flies.

A wriggly boy in striped alligator pajamas

watches the sky with me 

each morning. 

He turns
the pages
of my Bible

and pretends to taste my tea.

3.14.16

This morning's sky is the dull blue of a blank slate.

I'm waiting for the message written there

in rainbow colors
as each day breaks:

"Mercies, new, for you."