We gather at the failing tide
singing our harbinger songs
while dawn casts its amber net of morning.

Then moonlight turns to a doubtable haze
that sharpens to reveal the edge of a confident horizon

Unyielding, unstoppable,
it forces us to bury our petty woes under sand.

Enough, it says
Begin the day, it says
Create the day, it says.


About this poem

This poem is about the pragmatist in me telling the artist in me to stop whining.