I dread dark-closet mornings,
cold feet in sloughing slippers,
thinning robes from Christmas past.
I stumble, squint to find the switch
that turns on a fluorescent dawn,
wander to the window,
feel the snow, its weight upon the trees,
feel the horsetail wind
fly off the roof to sting my cheeks.
I close my eyes, cover dark with dark,
dream a sun-path on the kitchen floor,
a yellow road like Oz to lead me
barefoot to sweet tea and sand.
I picture the azalea bush ablaze,
blooms redder than a cardinal’s wing,
dogwoods, baby blanket colors
crocheted creamy yellow, white.
I long for days
when skies stay bright until I sleep,
and morning is a lyric light sings.
— Sarah Edwards