We all await the dawn,
sitting cross-legged, patient,
our chins are raised
and our hearts are racing,
we wait for the waking
in time – Old Sun’s new raising.
Mother, revered and ancient,
yawns the breeze, caressing,
the gentle kiss is her truest blessing,
that light touch on Old Sun’s head,
“Rise to shine,”
calmly, she said,
helping him to climb the heavens.
Count the inches – the cold has fled.
Mother turned to brush Luna’s tresses
as her daughter longed for the darkness,
she’d heal and rest – “Weary girl, press
your head into the pallid silk, let the
ebon pillows cool your cheek and then,
at the return to evening, I will tie your dress.”
Mountainside, we are eastward facing,
each sits cross-legged and patient,
we have gathered, we are waiting
for Old Sun to melt the ice from our faces,
and for young Luna to whisper our sleep
when she resumes her midnight pacing.
Good morning, you beautiful souls.