It cracks open,
yolk rising along
a sizzled horizon
and we call it
morning and we call it
magic and we call it
magnificent, as colors
braid their way through
dawn’s crimson hair.
We collect these fragile gifts into
baskets of seven, christen them
after heavenly bodies,
gods named for our own hunger,
…..thirst;
call it good.
And the evening
and the morning
were the first.
..
..
Written for Poetic Asides, Day 30.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Oh my:
“as colors
braid their way through
dawn’s crimson hair”