Morning must wait awhile
for the sun to cross the stile.
We wait in darkness,
shadows their starkest;
unable to see our way,
knowing the sun will rise,
always, on a new day.
But, I am awake for hours;
no years, no decades now.
I have pushed away darkened skies,
I have struggled to plant seeds
in hardened soil stomped on
by supremacist feet of clay.
I have listened to hateful words
until my soul shouts and sways.
Always, always, I wait for the sky
to lighten on a new day.
I listen for the first notes
of morning-birds’ first songs
carried on morning-breath’s first breezes
stirred by sun’s rising heat
overturning the cold of night;
up-ending threatening nightmares
and tossing them away.
Soon, soon, I promise you.
There will come a new day.
annarino writes 