In the half-light of morning
She struggles to lift the dark curtain
From her eyes
Daylight muffled by a pillow of clouds …

The anole stopped and stared at me.
He didn’t seem afraid at all.
I turned my head and he was gone
His stare was just a stall.

I wish that at eight
It wasn't too late
For the poetry to rise to the top

Her tears held the page in place
A torrent of emotion obscured its face,
In words smeared and blurred
Their meaning lost.

I don't live in the gray world
nor in the black and white.
I am neither a waif of dawn
nor an enchantress of twilight.