i hold few things in reverence these days except the cycle of the lights.

Because I was up all night,

again,

I was putzing around my apartment,

flitting from task to task

at 15 past 7 in the morning.

The last time I witnessed sunrise

was in January, but the way my apartment sits is

better suited for sunsets.

The only hint of daybreak I get

is from the cityscape and the lake and the bay out the living room window

waking up under bluer, brighter light.

But I was about to make the fifth trip in the last five minutes

from the kitchen down the hallway,

and I noticed actual sunlight against the northern-facing blinds,

so I sat on the arm of Grampa's old chair and peeked through them

with a sideways peace sign,

looking East just for fun.

I didn't expect to see the sun.

I ended up catching the morning blinding coming through

the trees half a block up,

butter yellow and bathing.

Some kind of holy--

no, not holy;

holy presupposes a fear,

a trembling, like,

Sure, a reverence, but a shaking one,

full of anxiety--

this light was peace, I guess. Which is unknowable, so

how do I know?

But that's the best thing to call it for now.

Fuck your holy.

Call it sacred: something to protect, not to bow down before,

but to live with, and in.

A daybreak, a morning.

I didn't expect to see the sun.