The day has come again,
The day that rests its
edges on the night.
And now, in light,
I hear the wings of birds
Unfold with flight.
Their feather patterns cut
through sleep-pressed air.
I hear the lift of leaves
As duster-puffs of wind
whisks down the sky,
And cloud shapes fly
To hang pink hammocks where
new mornings lie.
Then arms feel warm
With sleeves of sun to wear.
This piece appeared in the Spring 1947 issue of the student magazine Dimensions.