A wind is blowing soft upon the plain
in early hours that wait the break of day.
Grasses bend and shake their heads
at meager light that turns their blades to gray.
The morning air is chilling and I yearn
for the warm abode from where I came.
In the east appears a tepid glow
where the earth turns under the horizon.
It is the promise of the morning sun to be:
the burning star that lights the day
and warms the hearts of they who yearn upon the plain.
The time to bright the endless sky is near.
I strain to read my watch in the predawn light.
The darkened face has no words for me.
It is old and chafes my skin upon which it lies;
my fingers caress the aging leather band.
Last night, I took it from my father's trembling hand
as he lay dying.