When the wide world calls me back beneath its crumbly skin,
I hope the rising sun notices my sudden absence.
That I’ve spent at least a thousand mornings smiling at the horizon
as it does its weary work.
The pleasant predictability,
ever-rising,
conjuring beginnings,
weaving beauty of infinite ends,
a train of stars, growing with every morning's light.
That I would echo the peace of the dawn,
the hope of a distant glow after the longest night,
the gentle whisper that softly opens sleepy eyes.