Morning letter for Her

I
The morning lifts its curtain made of gold,
And spills its quiet light upon your name;
The dawn, as if a secret must be told,
Breathes softly through the syllables of flame.
The world awakens slowly just to see
What grace in sleep still lingers on your face;
For daybreak seems a lesser dawn to me
If it has not first dreamed of your embrace.

II
The sun delays its climb to hear you breathe,
Afraid to startle beauty into flight;
The clouds like reverent pages interweave
A canopy to guard your dreaming light.
And I, who watch the birth of hours unfold,
Find every second glimmering with you;
For morning’s warmth is never truly gold
Until it borrows some of your own hue.

III
The sparrows stitch the silence into song,
As though rehearsing hymns you once inspired;
The breeze repeats your cadence all along
The paths where early beams of fire conspired.
No bell, no chime, no choir in the sky
Could ring so clear as memory of your tone;
Even the dawn, though vast and shining high,
Feels incomplete when waking you alone.

IV
I write while dew still trembles on the leaves,
While light is young and fragile as a prayer;
Each word my hand upon this page conceives
Seems but a shadow of your presence there.
For language falters, humbled by your grace,
And ink confesses all it cannot be;
The sunrise envies even now your face,
And begs a lesson bright enough for me.

V
The eastern sky unfolds a rosy scroll
Where beams inscribe the gospel of your name;
The horizon glows as if your hidden soul
Had set the firmament itself aflame.
If heaven ever wished to imitate
The artistry it granted unto you,
It could not paint, nor patiently create,
A dawn so delicate, so clear, so true.

VI
The hours approach with sandaled feet of peace,
Unwilling yet to hurry time away;
They linger, hoping secretly to seize
One glimpse of you before they form the day.
For even Time, that monarch stern and wise,
Would pause his reign and lay his scepter down
If he might see reflected in your eyes
A light more royal than his golden crown.

VII
The garden breathes as though it knew your thought,
Its petals waking gently to your will;
The fragrance drifting through the air is caught
Like whispered vows the winds obeying fill.
And every bloom confesses what is true:
It learned its tenderness from watching you;
For nature studies softly what you do
And copies grace in every drop of dew.

VIII
A hush of wonder crowns the early hour,
The kind that saints and dreamers understand;
It feels as though some unseen tender power
Has brushed the earth with your invisible hand.
The light itself walks barefoot through the sky,
Afraid to wake the stillness where you rest;
It glows more faintly passing slowly by,
As though your slumber were a sacred guest.

IX
If dawn possessed a voice that could confess
What silent admiration fills its gaze,
It would proclaim your beauty nothing less
Than reason skies themselves are born to blaze.
For all the east is but a pale reply
To radiance your waking glance will send;
The sun must study long the art you ply
Before it dares ascend.

X
I think the day begins inside your breath,
Not in the sun nor in the turning sphere;
Creation waits upon your rise from rest
As though its meaning blossoms when you’re near.
For what is light if not a mirrored sign
Of brilliance living quietly in you?
The dawn is but a messenger divine
Announcing what your presence makes come true.

XI
Soon noon will climb the ladder of the air,
And hours grow bold with business and with sound;
Yet still this fragile morning will declare
That gentleness is where true light is found.
And I shall keep this early hymn I write
As proof no shadowed hour can erase:
The sun may rule the empire of the light,
But you are sovereign of its grace.

XII
So take these lines the morning gave to me,
Still warm with whispers from the newborn day;
They carry all the dawn’s sincerity
In words too small for what they long to say.
And if you read them when the sun is high,
Remember how the morning first began:
Not when the light appeared within the sky—
But when it dreamed of you before it ran.

Soft morning sunlight
Whispers drift through quiet air
Day blooms into light.