A dawn like pale sheets of grey cotton lifts groggily over the horizon.
Not soft, but present; not cold, but blank.
A blankness like the Nothing before Existence was spoken into being;
A presentness like the ambivalence of a stone’s weight.
It does not mean to be known,
It does not mean to be cared for;
It simply Is and it merely Exists.
These uncaring and unknowing grey sheets of cottony dawn
Fill the sky with a bare thing, it’s only purpose to be above
And be slightly lighter than the darkness it now replaces.
Spoken into Existence, this grey dawn Is,
And the trees’ bare fingers are given something to be seen against.
Stretched up and reached out, the naked sticks scrabble at the now-present Existence Above,
Not clawing but exploring the cotton sheets like toes in a bed made unfamiliar by the grey dawn.
The toes explore the sheets they find themselves in like naked sticks scrabbling at Existence Above,
And find a softness; a pale grey dawn that simply Is. The toes greet it and the sheets they touch:
It’s nice to have somewhere to be.