The Purple Dawn

(This Ode was written one morning when I was working and the morning sky was so vivid with purples and lilacs, I was curious why, and wanted to share my passion for the moment)

When darkness sighs and flees the western skies,

And morning stirs with sleepy, blushing eyes,

A miracle spills from horizon’s yawn—

The heavens gift us with the Purple Dawn.

The sun ascends, yet low and shyly born,

Its rays still soft, not yet in crimson sworn.

No blazing reds or boldest golds appear—

Just violet veils the early atmosphere.

Molecules dance in spectral, scattered light,

Exploding amethyst against the night.

Dust and dew, suspended in their play,

Give breath and birth to dawn’s majestic ray.

What stirs such wonder in this fleeting hue?

Is it the stormcloud's whisper breaking through?

A warning veiled in beauty’s calm disguise—

Wild things to come beneath such gentle skies?

Or is it wisdom in the morning air,

A call to live with courage, bold and rare?

To rise with valor, honouring the flame

That burns within the dawn’s poetic name.

The ancients cloaked their kings in purple pride—

A hue for thrones, not for the world outside.

Yet Nature, kind, makes royalty of all,

Bestows a crown in morning’s regal call.

It wraps the soul in splendour, deep and wide,

Lends wealth to those with little else beside.

The artist wakes, inspired by this tone,

And sings their thoughts before the day is grown.

This dawn provokes reflection, truth, and grace

Invites the heart to seek a sacred place.

Is it a spell, a trick of morning’s light?

Or wisdom woven in the edge of night?

Does spirit speak in silent lilac waves,

To calm our storms, to mend the world it saves?

A symbol soft of selfhood’s tender song,

To stand alone, yet feel we still belong.

For purple holds the paradox of things—

The fire and water, earth and sky it brings.

And like our thoughts—both shadowed, wild, and drawn—

So lingers long the mystic Purple Dawn.

The chakras know its sacred, seeking glow,

A crown of light where higher visions flow.

Yet fleeting is its time upon the land—

The reds and golds approach with warming hand.

And so, it fades, as all great muses must,

Swept off in sunbeams, scattered into dust.

But we shall wait, with hearts reborn and worn,

For the return—our next Purple Dawn.