DAWN AND I’M ON THE BALCONY OF THE GUESTHOUSE, VIET NAM
When the first grand winter storm falls late autumn,
the flowers already put away, the summer hens hidden
and the gecko bird deep into her tree.
dawn, a pink welt, a red bruise, a strain of color.
The sun cannot find its way—
rooster relishes this time of day, but he, too,
sees only scars across the sky,
a dirty snow white sky, the trees ablaze,
the ground a ream of freshly minted paper.
Who among us cannot come into this day in awe—
the teal bug? The cicada? The river rat?
Yet dawn remains hidden, the sky an almost blue,
two willow tree clouds in the distance.