never ever

You never can tell.
No, you never can tell,
when the morning is still thick
and black with clouds,
if there will be, at sunrise,
a mere streak of silver against the grey,
or an apricot band beyond the distant tree line,
or a brilliant breath-taking explosion of color
that will erase forever the hesitation you felt
when you first stepped onto the porch,
coffee mug in hand,
when the morning was still thick
and black with clouds.

And you're glad now.
Yes, now you're glad
you put aside the paper, the laptop,
the distraction that might have held you house-bound,
and went instead against the darkness in hope,
and caught the radiant moment
before the day again turned somber,
and the late riser, the pillow hugger,
will know only the grey.

But you can never tell.
No, you can never, ever tell.
Oh, your heart may have leaped in your chest
and you might have wept with joy
as the sun kissed you through that cloud-crack,
and the presence of the Holy One of Israel
might have found you breathless
on your knees in the weeds by the river,
but still, no one who wasn't there
will ever understand.

So you can never, ever tell.