Not knowing when the dawn
will arrive, I open each
door in the house, every portal,
gently easing it wide to
sip a taste of the night air.
The moon hangs onto its last
fragile minutes, a transparent
medallion losing shine, hanging
on a thread promising morning.
The house creaks lightly, an old
vessel riding a sea of dreams,
each door a waypoint, a mark
on this nighttime navigation.
I move quietly through shadows,
rooms turning to halls, and each
door opening toward some small
hope or worry stirred awake.
The promise of dawn somewhere
behind these stars, pulling open
hinges that groan, announcing
a day almost formed, not yet
ready to break, but warming
the edges of these silent frames.
Awake, I wait for the blush
of dawn’s first light, another
door opening, tenderly, into
the expectant hush of morning,
where all things begin again.