This morning I awoke suddenly to the pull of a faint moon. Its tension drawing me up and out of bed just before sunrise. A breeze floated coolly across the room and I reached for jeans and an old sweater, moving swiftly downstairs towards the kitchen and the kettle. I felt a sense of anticipation flood me. An urgency to reach the porch before the sun cast its pink light on the church steeple across the road. Gathering a mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other, I pressed the  screen door open with my hip, the cool of the morning grazing my face as I stepped onto the porch. And seated in silence amongst my flower companions, I watched the sun rise, inching its way between the pitch of two neighbouring roofs. I was reminded of the opening lines of an Emily Dickison poem.

I’ll tell you how the Sun rose—
A Ribbon at a time—
The steeples swam in Amethyst
The news, like Squirrels, ran—

I read til hunger brought me inside. The sun was filtering through an east-facing window, the dining table streaked in golden, low light, the daisies leaning towards it. Another cup of tea, the house still quiet, and the day stretching its arms wide open …






photos by: bliss {in images}