Early Hours

The warm wax  glow illuminates the room 

wax drips along the sides of the small glass

The only source of light before dawn 

Casts her wings in full vibrancy. 

Out of the quiet, comes the calm drift 

Brought by the dark early sky 

I awake to silence and let my hazy eyes widen 

In the corner is an old chair, the tears, and stains make it ancient.

 He sits there as a hint of amber

 Rises from the flame. 

I watch as the old man melts into the ripped 

furniture of my home

One leg across the other, his wrinkled pants 

Join together and above them lie his crinkled hands. They are clasped and gentle. 

He sings quietly in the patch of radiance. 

Morning mist sits upon the grass  

Under my hands, is the burn of cheap 

Cuban coffee. I trace its warmth and try to surrender. 

I ask to sing along. Perhaps I can sing loudly to the horizon   

The old man shakes his head with his tender eyes shut. 

Dawn is on her way. Her smile rests among the peach and the fog. 

I ask once more if I should sing with him 

Sing at the top of my lungs to the new sun. 

A gaze is met with grace. 

Reverence, says the man. I surrender once more. 

Reverence, he sings, as gold casts its first strike across the sky. 

Together, peace of the early hours falls upon us.