Crouched beyond the ragged rim of dawn, tomorrow waits
And mornings yet to be envisioned
Silently assemble.
Aeons dimly convene in that sweet silent place,
Listening, waiting, gathering purpose,
Wanting to make of future days
Some greatness, some goodness,
Even some poetry of action.
Will that dawn break glorious
Or will it slip-slide-slither in?
Will its herald be tittering bird-calls or
Fission blasts assaulting ears and minds?
Predawn is a time for questions:
What will become of this new day?
Will it distinguish its gathering self
As some great time that men will wonder at
Or will it slog into being an obscure
Past not worth remembering?
It’s all there waiting, assembling
Promising, even planning
A great and noble time
When level heads prevail,
When fisticuffs hesitate,
Think twice,
Decide to wait and see.
And hope.
It’s all there crouched as incipient possibility.
Will it explode as in the noble hymn:
Break forth O beauteous heavenly light
And usher in the morning?
Or not.
Perhaps it listens
Wondering what might come
If it takes that first grand step
Into a day of majesty.
Will it?
It must.
morethanenoughtruth 