The Dawn Forgets Restraint

The dawn forgets restraint.
It flings away its gold,
cobalt no coin can taint—
a heat that warps the cold.

It opens every door,
it asks no leave, no fee—
rose, saffron, plum, and more
than any eye can see.

By noon it floods with blue—
slate, dove, and gentian deep;
a clarity, struck new,
the waking heart can't keep.

By dusk the west's a forge—
vermilion, bruise, and rust;
the east, a deepening gorge,
fills up with grey and dust.

It falls the same on all:
the cradle and the crypt,
the palace and the stall—
it crowns the serf and honeylipped.

Beneath it, you are slight.
The pill, halved on the sill.
The fridge that hums all night.
The rent. The unpaid bill.

You bowed to none of them.
You stayed. You stay.

Yet look: the whole sky's yours.
No ledger. No demand.
It pours, and pours, and pours—
raw gold in your cracked hand.

It is falling where you stand.
Breathe it while you can.

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