Conscious

How this window frames 6am
with its embryo sun
throwing a single shard
past skeletal beds and
through Sunday silence
is a small work of legend.
In the first nuance of day,
small diamonds of dust spin
across the straining flower buds,
their crimson petals almost bleeding.
And from dark-tinged corners
worn chairs are rising.
The thick air aches
with the stillborn fragments
of a last faint brush of lips
and cold words wrapped
in the muslin of an autumn twilight.
Long ago?
A crucifix stares like a sword.
Unsheathed, I close my eyes.