Aubade, for Sweet Nyx

Rain laden clouds are clearing out
And there's a bluing in the east
Where morning skies seem like they shout...
"Begone midnight! You are deceased!"
And scattered puffs are turning pink
Or that old fashioned rosy gold
When solar beams are on the brink
Of darkness in its casket, cold,
Where it sleeps on native soil
To rise once more within hours
When night again shuffles coil
With dark matter and strange powers...
In constant rotation, there and here,
Like love within a sonneteer!