Cenial [sic]

Traffic makes for cenial days,
dawn at night.

A sunrise's sunset drifts idly
below the surface of light fractures
with reds dampened,
spawning one-way mirrors at twilight:
picturesque diamond dust reflects
like fresh daytime snows below blue,
or dew mists
on smiling Arboretum spring leaves.

Aren't water drops just Escher's eyes?
Doesn't poetry have pleasant
sometimes abstract thighs?

Age old dilemmas revisited:
What came first, dawn or starlight?
(Who came first, mother nature or father time?)

Age old civilizations revisited:
All of our cement lines are our cities veins:
some of these are white lines for the forever vain,
yet anxieties always manage to get the main.

But a day is just a day.
Dawns at night should be
deep breathes and
retreats from lights spites.
Don't except, cenial-- is melting treasures.