It's early morning after a sleepless night. It will be dawn soon.

I leave the apartment and cross to the glass wall of the foyer where I can look to the east.

The sky is still gray.

Standing here alone, I am reminded of a time so long ago when I had decided that the best way to write about something was to first experience it.

I had wanted to write a poem about the dawn, so I would get up early next morning and watch the dawning of a new day.

And write about it.

Surprisingly, it had not been the rising of the sun that I had chosen to write about next day.

For some reason, it had been the stillness which preceded it that had impressed me more -- the soft gray hush broken only by the sleepy morning songs of a few half-awake birds.

So, at 14, I had written my first poem -- and crawled back into bed.

I have witnessed many dawns since then -- have watched the sun rise over many lands. But I had forgotten until now the aspiring young poet's first dawn.

How will I feel about it now? I wonder. Have the years between changed me, changed the way I'll feel?

Opening the door, I step out into the courtyard where, alone, I wait and -- watch -- watch for an older sun to rise up from behind the
mountains . . . .

And you know what?

I wouldn't change one word of that child's poem.