Poets' Pleasures by smzang

The day rises slowly
pink faced and fresh as a daisy,

It is a gift, but not just one gift,
or...if it is one gift
it has a hundred bows,

or maybe a thousand
or more    depending
on the size of your heart.

The birds and their song
the beginning, Dawn with a bow
all its own, Then your first yawn

taking in oxygen, and from there
every mile has its miracles,
gifts to be opened;

Each one is a poem
waiting for your alphabet.