Processing Dawn
Johnny Rocket Ibanez
In response to the prompt found here.

As we begin to sift through the rubble 
left in the wake of this storm
we become aware of several things all at once:
the husk of sleep as it peels off in stringy layers
as for a moment in the early dawn
it feels like everything is fine,
the fey call of birdsong as it rings out like a wake hymnal
behind the final breath of our hope
that the storm was all just a fever dream,
the chorus of fog and cloud and thick thick silence
as it blocks the jasmine sun and its promise of hope.

My morning chorus is robin song, dog snore,
the deep breath of love still in bed,
and the bright blast of the cardinal’s red
as it cuts through gray, 
sifts through the residual winter cold
left like a forgotten coat on a rack,
and picks up the jasmine strands 
that in fey din of disbelief
promise the inevitability of regrowth
and the eventual exfoliation of this cocoon husk.

In the meantime, we drink tea,
black with bergamot and the ghost of jasmine,
thick on the tongue with honey and ceremony,
strip the husk of sleep off of dawn in stringy layers
as the dog snores in the back room
and love falls back asleep in the rubble of the bedsheets,
regard the fey twist of new silence 
that morning robins brighten with song 
and trees stretch their spring leaves into,
sift through the leftovers of yesterday’s grief 
and fill fresh with a chorus of bright cardinal red.