Morning found you. You didn't even know you'd been a lostling all that night till then. The encounter woke you, much like sunburst when a shade flies up. You breathe, I'm here!m You throw the covers off. You wriggle every toe and note their number: five plus five is ten, and stand them down beside your bed again, every new foundling time. Morning is so suprising. Dawn's the seeking world, the scout who spots you where your darknesses are spent, the miner mining where your treasure lies. Eureka!m cries the day, and draws you out to prove you don't discover or invent your life. Light reaches. Then you recognize. And noon stayed with you longer than you knew. It came with daybreak, only hanging back until your eyes grew daily wide awake enough to watch it sliding up that blue arc, ocean in air, that vast sea-view, up over chimney, turret, tree, smokestack. Slow-motion golden snail's cerulean track, it crawls, deliberate swimmer, or seems to, yet pauses, seems to, so you name it him at zenith. Noon,m you say. and Let it go at that. And still it stays, though all too soon you call it gone. It stays, circling the sky that binds you at its center. Steadfast glow by dark unseen yet present: nadir noon. Dusk has a way of waiting till it's due to fall. Not that it isn't faintly there hidden in folds of blooming day: a rare fragrance evident only at the true hour of release, though all along it grew within the bud. You must have been aware of shadow under the calyx, and to spare. You must have known longsince there's nothing new in brilliance that comprises all the same its opposite, without which light would be but half the whole, and life itself would miss completion. Therefore in good time you name twilight the flower that falters lingeringly, coming to seed; as you will come to this. Now night, this nought of now. don't misconstrue whole emptiness. It never keeps till day. It shrinks within its darkling cup the way foam settles down, becomes a piddling few dull drops, then remnant dampness less than dew. Of deep nocturnal proof you'd have to say there's nothing.Then you not that black is gray and bowl is filling up with something new, with morning. Must have been here all the while ready to surge like wine that brimmed the ewer of Baucis and Philemon. What have you done to merit such reward? How morning pile on mornings! How your days are never fewer than all your life discovered by the sun!