Waxing Poetic

I'm trying on poetry again.

When I was in high school it fit me like a baggy sweater that I hadn't grown into yet. Tried it on with boyfriends to find it too tight around the neck, too cold, leaving me sweating.

I've done a lot of living since then. I might know how to knit my own thing now.

Sunday's threads are woven below, with a suggested soundtrack:
Magic Hours - Explosions in the Sky - How Strange, Innocence

*******

Gradual

The frigid sky opens cautiously, as if
squinting to receive
the dawn’s orange welcome,
pulling up over the horizon.

Winter ushers in a
tentative beginning each day,
world still sleepy in
warm beds, wrapped in
cozy wombs…

fighting the arrival of Sunday and
the buzy ushering of visitors,
the last minute to-and-fro
of errand running before
succumbing to work’s obligations
tomorrow.

But that won't sully this morning.

That Kansas sky woke me up
to seek out ink-stained hands and
caffeinated supplies,
reminding me that any place
can feel like home,
but the heart recognizes
its melody in the familiarity of
a sunrise -
a pitch that cannot be replicated,
but is quietly discovered over time.