In the middle of the night

Wake up to an empty bed—

I’ve chased my husband away with persistent pregnancy snores,

again.

Without looking,

I know he’s left the alarm on

set for an hour earlier

than I need to wake.

It takes me about

an hour of fuming

before I reach over to check.

It’s on.

I turn it off.

I understand my fury

at his lack of basic courtesy

is actually sublimated hurt;

my rage is really disguised lonely

in the wee hours of the morning.

That doesn’t drain one whit of the righteousness away.

Lying still,

I pace furiously in my head until the windows turn grey.

Rising, I ease up to the third floor balcony,

Where the sun is laying out the most incredible array

of orange, pink, gradual yellow on the clouds.

I watch for a minute & try to soothe myself.

I can’t watch the whole thing.

Sunrise, though stunning, is slow.

I’ve seen so many extraordinarily beautiful things in my life

that turning away isn’t hard,

as if I’ve seen enough sunrises,

as if the world,

putting on a horizon-shattering light show just for me,

is commonplace,

insufficient.

But five minutes later

the light through the crack in the clouds

has set the whole window on fire,

pulled my chair back to the door—

I am a fool.

The smudge of golden,

thumbprint of that careless luminous artist

fills a third of the sky,

casually laid over

the clouds I know are supposed to be grey.

Impatient rays emanate from the gloomy gate below,

bursting madly forth

uncontainable.

Only the morning patter of rain,

pure, melodious and clean,

can drive me back indoors.

The birds all going

poke holes in the tight color-corralling clouds,

and paint leaks out into the watery blue world,

thinning, spreading, turning the whole thing

bright.