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Dawn.

Yesterday, washed with the shore. Today, risen with the doves.

Hot mugs, torn bindings — a compelling start.

Whisking worries, precious prayers, distant dreams.

A new sun brings light. Creates promise. Drives creation.

There is hope in the world, when the rooster crows.

Noon.

Elevators and handshakes and the Times and screens.

Pulled from here to there: the goal? Stay true.

But the collar pulls tight and the walls ring blank.

The clock ticks leisurely and the coffee is cold.

There is profit in the world, when the coat drapes shoulders.

Dusk.

There’s the sun, again. It’s been too long, old friend.

The plates are on the table and the six o’ clock news is on the set.

Would you stay awhile? Kick up your feet and wet your lips?

Tomorrow, it will come. Tonight, we dance.

There is love in the world, when the table is full.

Midnight.

The stars waltz, the moon hangs, the sky awakens.

The trees whisper bedtime tales of the days of long ago.

She’s asleep, the sun, there’s peace beneath the pines.

For a moment, there is silence. There is tranquility. There is stillness.

There is peace in the world, when the owl makes its bed.

 

— David Ray

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