Light beams through the windows in the morning.

Setting the halls in an unearthly golden glow.

As if heaven was descending instead of ascending.

Giving a calm awakening to the house.

I am rarely awake to see it.

I contribute to the silence.

Meeting the light with quiet breaths.

Curled into a ball to cling to the remaining dark.

Not even the light can wake me.

The comfort sings to me in siren’s song.

Only a powerful relic of memory could raise me.

The sun has long risen when the low call of a mourning dove stirs me.