Even to the sky,
the morning is only a murmur.
It stirs slowly,
shifting under its own weight,
gathering colours
like edges of a dream.
Rolling light
between its palms,
not quite ready
to let go of the night.
A violet hush winks
through the clouds,
smiling at the blurred rooftops
and the uncreased air.
Smiling at how the sky
won’t rise all at once—
watching how it turns
and sighs lazily,
unfurls drowsily
and wakes softly,
one calm breath at a time.
