Sunrise

The flower stands beautifully.
Watching, waiting, resting for it.
It comes first, by a drip
Then like a forest fire it engulfs
Its beauty makes all nature pause.
Yet every morning it’s cursed by commuters.
What once hailed a good day,
Now is marred in scandal.
Yet the flower has no care.
The day the Lord has made, has come.
The sun dances with the colours.
The pink, the purple, the orange.
As God sits at His easel,
His great hand, one with the brush.
But now He must paint the next one
And the flower turns its head to watch,
Once again the day is over.
The flower stands beautifully.
Watching, waiting, resting for it.

© D.J. Winters 2002