“Do you see it, Agnes? The spot where the sun will come up, where the sky is most pink?”
We overhear a mother fussing over her young daughter with the unfortunate name. Agnes is restless and squirming despite the early hour, gazing with longing at the other children whose mothers let them run wild across the peak of Cadillac Mountain. None of them seem to care much about the arriving sunrise they’ve been dragged up here to enjoy.
Do you see it, Agnes?
There, the spot where the sky is most pink, most burning, most ripe?
Where the sky is ripe, ripe, ripe for day,
Where the light first kisses rock,
Where morning brushes the strands from night’s still face.
Where the sky is pink and burning and bright,
Bright enough to burn splotchy love letters behind our wanting eyes,
Even when you look away.
The sun rises higher, brighter,
So high and bright and pink and ripe
that Agnes can nearly taste it.
She holds it in her hands,
and takes a bite,
and feels the rays running down her arms
as she licks the light from her fingers.
Did you see it, Agnes? Did you taste the sunrise this morning?