A belt of grey surrounds a blue patch above me.
The sun is rising behind the clouds, lighting the edges,
Reflecting softly, wiping out shadows and altering distances.
The bark of the parasol pine is grey like a turtle in need of a watering hole.
Just a little while longer and the light will touch me.
It already sits on the hill behind me
It skims the edges of pine needles
Bounces off window panes
And hits the cedar’s low branches.
I step sideways to be in the first ray’s axis.
It is cold. My bare feet are numb.
The air is still
Swifts trawl for breakfast in manic maneuvers.
Up on the roof a magpie says nothing and waits with me.
A vapor trail rakes the sky for stray moisture.
I can smell it come before it touches me
I see it sliced thin by eucalyptus leaves
I close my eyes…
Cold white sun appears
Barely there, absent-minded, inattentive.
My need for warmth doesn’t interest him.
He showed up for gnats playing leap-frog on a sunbeam,
For the sodden petunias and the sopping sage
The weeping jasmine and disheveled daisies…
He has work to do and I’m in the way.
When the battered roses have recovered
And the Med is blue again …
He might be able to squeeze me in after lunch.