First Light

a poem by Roger B Rueda

However virtuous the light is,
all have sleep
in its discernments.
Nature seems held
in what wants to bounce
or sigh.
Reveries grow reedy,
see-through, as the sun goes
through with a fine-tooth comb
into a new day.
There is labour to do.
Lushness
must change the sun
into saccharinity;
every cell must generate another
of its kind; insects
and their kin
must search for drops of dew,
drink them before they fade
into thin air. Breakfast becomes
the first order of the day.
Those who browse
and those who search
move amongst those who draw in
minerals to meet their needs.
All are in danger.
After some time
there should be fewer mouths
to suckle — but it won’t come about
that way. Life will come
from loss
and the living
will replace those
the world lost in less
than a season.
And just now — it all holds its fire to begin.