Dawn paves its own way

  if what we mean by dawn

is sunrise. The sky's already

  light by the time the sun

comes up, rising on its own

  prediction of the day.
This is how art is made.

  And memory. And love.

First, the halo overhead.

  Next, the body. Last
the roots like the final

  rays of the sun spiralling
as earth pulls free of them
 and they of earth. Then
illumination's width and frame.
 This is how love is made

rising into a desire

  for love, however grey

the outlook, late the hour
 hard for faith and fear
to pave the way. Love

  full-face. Preordained
as sunrise, chasing after

  the ghost of its own grace.