A finger dips into the water.
Ripples form rings as wide as the oldest tree.
The morning air tastes like
magic, as if a heavy sigh would be enough
to knock the world upside down. A boy
wraps his arms around his sun tanned knees.
Lily pad eyes peer out from under a waterfall of curls;
he lets his hair fall over his face, hiding
under the spell of dawn.
He wonders at the colours of
God’s crayon box.
The boy knows that the best shades are saved
for sunrise. The sun comes like a splatter.
The yellows, reds, oranges and pinks
seem to mix with every other colour he can
imagine. Absentmindedly, he twirls
a piece of grass between two sandy palms.
Eyes on the sky, he tucks these colours into the paint set
he keeps in an often unused corner of his mind.
A woman comes,
she calls his name and tugs him away.
She doesn’t care about the colours; she doesn’t know how
he craves the vibrancy of morning.
Morning is when the seconds drag more slowly
than his feet.
Morning is when the day is heavy
with surprise and potential.
In the morning, at dawn, no one
tells him he has to