The light is born.
It calls me into the wide air,
the slow stream that flows
from the weight of night in the west
through my garden
to the edge of sun.
Here the day waits to be formed,
to run its body over the fat earth,
to rub its nose into the corners of dark,
nudging the trees awake.
It is glistening,
waiting to squeeze its newness
into the old harbour,
ready to flood as the rim of earth
cracks its ripeness and delivers it
fresh as baby’s breath.
If I sit softly in its saddle
I can see it unfurl around me,
lightening the air like love.
I am a princess to its promise.