The sharp-slanting light bears the warm touch of dawn.
Its power tints the rough walls with fire.
The fast-dying shadows mourn night’s sovereign gone,
o'erthrown as the sun hurries higher.
And there, on the threshold of daylight’s advance,
far away in a bright world of dream,
you curl in the comfort of sleep’s circumstance,
immune to the morning sunbeam.

The hard-yet-soft lines of your sleep-slackened face,
that pillow-tossed mass of soft hair,
the sweet, serene mien that you wear with such grace,
wipe away any thoughts of despair.
Instead, I am left, in the silence of morn,
with my love clearly writ in my eyes,
to drink in your warmth, dream of futures unborn,
and bask in the breeze of your sighs.

And then, in that breath hung ‘twixt old day and new,
in the midst of my dawn’s reverie,
is the soul-searing truth. I exist just for you,
and you, love, own all that is me.