Glory Birds

Turning gray to white
mending morning and sorrow,
the sun rises
tomorrow.

It will be bright
but deafeningly quiet
telling the horizon,
it’s my time
for the glory birds.

I see it clearly
a ball of flame
that does not warm
all the same
as an evening fire
that burns your name.

I see you now
but cannot speak
for what I want
is seldom meek.