Mornings are not so,
Rain-soaked and painted grey,
Now, on occasion, we are blessed,
With light and warmth,
To wake us from our slumber,
More readily.

The rays glint on the windows across the road,
And dazzle my eyes,
So I can barely see the infinite blue,
That so rarely shows itself,
But instead hides behind tears and mist.

If the sun would only shine a month earlier,
Or a fraction brighter,
Wouldn't it be wonderful?
Perhaps.
But would it bring such joy,
If we knew its light would embrace us again,
And again, and again, and again?