Admonishment

I lecture myself.

You know the routine:
birds first,
then a lightening sky
and a distinct chill,
except in the height
of the summer heat.
So why does it 
always seem new?
Every dawn
feels like the very first one.
It might always have 
been night until just
this morning.
The spreading benediction
reaches your heart
with a sigh. 
Bidding good-bye 
to the still, solitary,
doubting night 
with a silent prayer
for it all.
Soon there will be bustle
and you’ll tire of the 
buying and selling of the day
and wish for the night.
Then you’ll wish for the 
morning again.
And you’ll wait for the leaves to fall,
and the almost crystalline breath of a walk in
soft, heavy snow.
The fevered burst of pink flowers on a tree
and the sweat between your breasts.
Wish for the inevitable and then
be grateful when you receive it.
What else is there?
To begin with:
Dawn is a platitude that never gets old.