Having for twelve hours shone
Beneath the world, or at least
Beneath our own well-known
Horizon, the powder of the east

Grows in dribs and drabs that

Apply filigrees of rouge and taint
To a land still mired in the brush,
Where dark fronds begin to paint
Around the sun’s ascending blush

And the winds of dawn begin to stir,

As rouge across the shining bay unfurls
And the shadows of the room recur,
Making of our rising girls
Only what they always were.

April 18th, 2023