How the dawn does not end but travels
ever westward, always arriving. How the dusk
sails forward, and the float of midday, the stroke
of midnight cannot dissolve – here,
and here around the world.
The woman waking, the man soothing the child
who is afraid of the dark, the goatherd
under the baobab, the florist in his van of flowers…
And the morning, like the sun
itself, stitching us all.