dagian, Old English: first light

It Is the Hour by Barbara Helvey Hughes
 
Steel grey clouds press low and heavy on the distant ridge
seeming to burden them, trapping what small light awakens
at this 6 a.m. hour.  I love this time of day.  Love awakening
with fog or mist, clouds or rain, sun or wind.  It doesn’t matter:
It is the hour.
 
I never believed I would be old enough to exist at so young an hour.
Couldn’t wait to awaken at 3 a.m. or midnight or 5 a.m..  Rise, move,
do stuff: meditate, read, write, eat almonds.  Freedom.  Independence.
Think of you ~ what you are doing, where, why, what? What? What?
It is the hour.
 
So, as those felted clouds blanket the Roan and smother light, I sit
seduced by memories, sipping piping coffee, appreciating the biting wind,
much colder, now, infused with remnants of some other Southern
Storms, which remind me of you and of how I miss you.  You.
 
It is the hour.