(This is a guest post by my daughter.)

I sing a song of morning –

Muscles waking, aching, stretching,

Mouth open wide to let sleep out and draw wakefulness in.

The world sings with me,

Those first notes of birdsong

And the soft bubbling hiss of the coffeepot,

The clamor-scurry of the pets all around,

Reminding me that we all need fuel,

Food, sustenance,

If we’re going to face this new day.

The gray of early dawn cracks open,

An Easter egg in reverse, dull sky shell peeling away

Flashing hints and whispers and suggestions of color,

Brightness,

Light.

I sing a song of mourning –

Muscles clenched tight, bunched like fists,

Mouth pressed to a thin line, as if not saying it can unmake the truth.

The world sings with me,

The thin whistle of stinging wind

And the soft slimy hiss of whispered condolences,

The bustling efficiency of funeral directors and priests,

Reminding me that there’s always business

Busy-ness, toil,

Even when there aren’t any days left to face.

The gray of unfeeling closes over,

A spectral hand blocking out the sun,

Draining color and flavor and feeling,

Brightness,

Light.

I sing a song of morning mourning –

Funeral long past, grief packed away,

Lips pursed to whistle my scattered self home from my nighttime wanderings.

The world sings with me,

A thousand  different songs of hope and despair

Murmurings of grief and grievances,

The chaos that resolves itself slowly into rhythm,

Reminding me that everything always gives rise to something,

Better, worse, only different

In this daily resurrection of self.

Color and colorlessness start their dance,

Tugging across my world,

Asking each other, and me,

What of today?

Bright, or dark?

                                                                               Hanna Lange