Morning
Something about waking early,
before daylight streaks the air with yellow,
brings an intimacy with darkness,
a purity to the day’s endeavors.
No matter how black the wall of night,
how impenetrable the ebony expanse
of starlessness, birdsong chips away at it,
pecking until it breaks into the light.
Bright bird, pink patch of sky,
pray for us, o holy mother of dawn,
that we may be made worthy
of the promises of day.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry on four continents, and has won prizes from the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, the Illinois Arts Council, and Poetry on the Lake. Her seventh book of poetry, Edges, is forthcoming from Purple Flag Press. (donnapuccianipoet.wordpress.com)