Nicodemus

I woke and saw some back ally god slice across the domed muscles of night and birth the earth through the bleeding horizon into daylight.
It is morning.
So I do what I do, which is drink coffee and lean against the porch rail while the trees drip and the birds flirt. I inhale pink sky and tie it round my finger for later (I am married to the sunrise).
The planet, this half of the globe is born again into light.

I've read those love letters from our mother. She played us Mozart while our cells divided and we grew fingers, gave up coffee, ate her dark greens and told us stories of the wind while we sprouted ears. She said, "I tell you the truth," and, "Do you not understand?" and "Light has come into the world," and "Can you hear it groaning?"

Poor Nicodemus, I think, and poor me. The sky has faded to grey and in an hour or two, after lunch, or maybe in the shower I will forget how this pink morning felt. So then, how will I remember the sunrise when Nicodemus finally gets it and the sun never sets again?