Aubade, first trimester

The only thing 
that’s different
this morning 
is as small as 
a poppy seed, 
the size of a point
punctuating 
an exclamation,
a question.

The day breaks 
sparingly 
over the sea in mist 
and snow and cloud, 
stillness along the shore 
like the holding of
a breath, dark stalks
and red berries 
individually encased 
in ice, the whole
world outlined in silver.

I stand beneath the slow 
alterations of sky, 
exclamatory, querulous. 
Watching with a kind
of reverence—
     of this inaudible shift
     of the low light growing 
     steadily over the water
     of you: who I haven’t met,
     and only will once we part.