The Red Door of dawn

Coyotes nip at the edges of the night. 

Pulling at the seams. Unraveling. 

Their scratchy voices raised. 
Heralding in the light. 

The mountains stand silent sentry

Bold and dark as shadows 
against the winter sky

The morning tip toes quietly into the valley, 

softly touching things with her hands 

disturbing the shadows

Rousing the light

A soft hand reaches for the winter bare branches of the elm tree

She slowly moves her frame across the red door on the east wall of the barn, touching the chipping paint slowly, the wind weathered wood with care

Unafraid, she slips into the crevasses, 

the dark wrinkles in the mountain, 

freeing the night with a tinkle of her silent laugh

But best of all, she reaches through my window 

and she touches your face so tenderly, 

sharing with me the lines I love so well 

and the outline of your lips 

as you reach for me and whisper 

good morning