Moment to Moment

—Dennis Richardson

Sitting in the darkness of our breakfast nook,
very early in the morning,
before the sun has done its magic,
I raise the blind.

All I can see is the horizon of the fence.
Above it, the empty color of night,
no stars, no street lights.
I think: this is the color of death.

There was a home, next door,
where a family with three children
once lived.  Then, only the mother
was there,  died there,
the home demolished.
We miss her.

A light goes on in the home
across the now vacant lot.
The very top of a tall redwood tree
just beginning to show in the far distance.
Like a god, it stands there
watching time, its every second,
new moments born.

The dark is melting into its rainbow of life
as the sun returns.
Its joy to the world colors
now trimming my thoughts.

The foundation of a new home,
there all the time.
Across the street,
Christmas is on its way here, again.

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