Daylight

Daylight

The world wakes up early with us, us who aren't sleeping. It's not that we can't sleep–we just don't. Probably for different reasons, yet some are surely the same. Maybe it was enough: this pause for dreaming, this cherry plumb waltz with the fears which dance around dreams.

Daylight has already made sense of my room, hazy in a gray-yellow robe. She dresses  what we know: the furniture, the promises...she colors the day to come, the thoughts that bring me into full awareness. She is not hurried, walking through the wall of cicadas, listening to their drone signaling the heat. She turns toward the coo coo of a pigeon as I perceive a conversation between seagulls. Is that possible, so far away from the sea?

Through my window Daylight shimmers on the neighbors' pool in expectation of the two children who will later jump in. A motorcycle passes by their gate with its headlights still on, attesting to the night it left under the tarp at home. The two beams release a light that tries to mimic the gleam in the pool. But it can't reflect the sky sneaking through the trees nor capture their white blossoms.

Wake up slowly world, I say as much to Daylight as myself, sipping some water. 

She turns around and smiles into a sun pattern on my wall.

Photo: Dmitriy Zub: https://www.pexels.com/photo/blue-toned-image-of-a-tree-reflecting-in-a-pool-with-tiles-6927699/

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi