First Light in America

is not the sun but
Atlantic gray

Four streetlight spears
on South Main St. shove
buildings forward

muted red brick
haloes over fledgling maples
clouds cross the sky

Lavender morning is concrete
bleached from black
now rotting apricot
peeking pink

haze settles over Spring
sinking
into thatched roofs
the same blue

like a symphony
in the bright trees
crescendo pushes pink aside
its great march
sky astride

sun strikes horizon
spikes yellow thru white