The shades of dawn
falling like colorful feathers
plucked from the sky.

Sorrow, a distant friend with
sodden shoulder and sturdy
pose, no longer needed.

In hand, a timetable of
misbegotten deeds, to be
dispersed to the four winds.

The song was sung long ago.
The echo still remains, of
voices faint and far off.

I do not know the words.

Climbing the mountain,
altitude unknown, oxygen
as a noon shadow.

The pinnacle appears.
Breathing in the clouds,
Focus begins to dim.

Past fading into the future, as
the dawn now turns pure gold.
The summit is within reach.

– Ann Christine Tabaka