Aubade

Still, the house; then light-crack, the entr'acte
         of dawn: each pane laliqued, fern-etched
                 on the emery-wheel of December. Brief,
that film, already burning, the evaporate fact
         I'd stay lost in longer, the far-fetched
                 dream the sun now filches like a thief.

And so the windows fill with day's contusions,
         a slurry of routine, hours stretching
                 toward predictable horizons. Belief
once fluttered at my lips. What god can soothe
                         such grief?

Copyright © 2003 Richard Foerster All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission