Dawn does not wash over the earth
sinking into limpid lavender pools
and dripping yellow butter,
the yolk of her light warm and rich in the azure sky
bearing rosy sunshine as a gentle promise.
Dawn does not peek over the horizon
as a child might peek at a hidden present.
Dawn does not embrace the earth
as a cherished friend after a long absence.
No, Dawn rages over the earth,
a seething torrent of flaming vermilion
spewing lava in streaks of orange
against the funereal firmament,
a roiling inferno that sears the lungs
leaving a moment of recognition, a quiet gasp,
before settling like ash upon the entombed.
Dawn does not wash over the earth—
no, she breaks it.