A Patient Morning

Though the morning is always a time of labour, I find a sort of beauty in it's stillness.
 
Loathing the hour I have to wake, yet appreciating it's lonely magnificence.
 
The stars, moon, and sky work in tandem to paint a picture more vivid than any dream could wish to be. It's message clear too, shouting to all who gaze upon the morn sky;  
 
"Our glamour far outmatches your futile attempts to recreate the Universe and all it's intricacy."
 
Your patience is rewarded however, for if you wait, the true splendor of the early hours is revealed.
 
The sun, in all it's celestial power, ignites the sky with an orange so rich it could pay the debt of light set by night. And oh how it does, the light.
 
The sun now speaks, louder than it's predecesors,
 
"View me, in all my glory, and see how I fuel all. The air you breathe is by my action alone."
 
Your eyes even struggle to view all of the sun's cosmic starlight, their simple limits beaten by something so much greater than us.
 
Though the hassle and irritation that trails close by the rude awakening, the morning is truly a time of reconcile. To be here another day,
 
what a gift.