At Dawn

Waking up before dawn, waiting for the first birdsong. Exquisitely melodious as it echoes in the deep nocturnal silence that is becoming tainted with shades of blue and white. As the light and noise thicken and as the day begins to wake, the silence is eroded and the melody loses in its ring and quality though it continues further on until the day is fully roused. Nothing, for me, beats the magic and poetry of these wonderful beginnings. Now, on the edge of winter, I wait for spring and summer when the melodious song can be accompanied by the hum of crickets, a soft wind breeze, and the stars as they slowly disappear from the whitening sky. I will always wait for the first birdsong at dawn.

Haiku # 613 | Tanka # 167

Dans la pluie
qui mouille mes lèvres
je goutte ton nom

~

Dans mes mains
je les acquis,
tes cheveux tombant
comme la pluie
de la voute du ciel

~

Imprégnée de rosée
sa peau de fleur respirait
le blanc de la poésie

~

Dans le jardin,
sous le ciel de l’aube,
sa peau de fleur
imprégnée de rosée
respirait la poésie.

~

Laying in the garden
at the break of dawn,
the flower of her skin
soaking in dew
breathed poetry.