How many times do we praise the morning?
Sometimes, that we didn’t pass in the night,
tumult as a planet into the void,
is a surprise.
That we are almost all re-woken,
as though the day had something to say.
Something to impress upon us,
is enough in itself to make us wonder
what it is that the day wants
so earnestly to impart.
That she, in the way the clouds separate
for a glimpse of rising sun,
is like the mother
who opens the door a crack
to ask us how we are.
To exclaim, hopeful and expectant,
that it will be another beautiful day.
What parent says to his child,
‘look the morning is here,
to remind us all is not lost.’
Though the night seems a huge gulf
between us and the light,
the day comes with all the stuff
of our hopes and dreams,
all the balm
for our ailings and our hurts.
What parent speaks of their fears of loss,
of the night’s vivid dreams,
of the assurance each morning
that our children are still sleeping,
at rest in their beds,
soft faces in repose.
Like us, to be reassured
by the day, that in its cycle set,
And which we each,
in our relief,
count as confirmation for being.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry