Dawn is soft dew on the meadow, dawn is,
Warm golden sun filtering through frosted branches,
Light creeping through the curtains and covering your eyelids,
The dying spark on the hearth or behind the eye,
Does not see the dawn,
Nor the multitudes on their way to work,
Not yet ready to cope.

But I close my eyes and see the dawn,
And in the dawn I see,
A rumpled sheet and a soft goodbye,
A fast white car on a cold gray road,
I smell you on my body,
A lingering happy odor,
Dawn is hope and joy and sweet sadness,
A new awakening,
That’s what dawn is.

Dawn, Steve Roberts, October 1982