Days begin so inauspiciously
With morning rising cold against the sky.
Why should I want to watch the starshine die
And see the looming sun - if I could see
Against its shine - advance destructively,
Melting the fragile frost? Or tell me why
I ought to welcome that which, hot and dry,
Scorches the clouds, and turns what used to be
The grey-marked tendrils of a faery ceiling
Into cotton candy, flat and dead
Which fizzle in the sun, outworn and reeling
Robbed of the magic which the nighttime fed.
I think the afternoon is better far
The morning's where the troubles always are.
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