A new morning,
At the death of an old week.
Skeleton trees reach their bony arms,
Into the see of rose gold clouds above.

Faint chimney smoke,
From a distant home.
A family who wakes,
And won't see the sky,
In the same way I do.

They will return to their beds,
In the soft clutch of tonight.
And won't stare out the window,
Into the twilight curl,
Of stars and branches weaved.