I rise before the sun, no phoenix
only this ordinary woman in bathrobe and slippers
greeting the day with teacup in hand.
Green wreaths the woodland, sprinkled with drops
of violets, redbud and shy bluet.
The air is fresh-washed from yesterday’s rain,
scented with lilac and strew with sweet birdsong.
I taste the nectar of this gift, this spring morning,
and wait for the gold to wrap me in warmth.