First the Last Watch

Of the mornings approaching
Summer, when a window seat
Will give you a little light

Not lamps or street lights, not stars,
Just the growing light of day,
Well before most days begin—

You can pretend to be old
Enough to be sage, and chant
A few poems from memory,

Then try your mind at new ones
While the blue light turns brighter,
And your household’s still asleep,

And, out on the roads, the trucks
Make early deliveries,
The night workers end their shifts.

There’s no perfect time to be
Alone and human, but few
Are any better than this.