Morning comes slowly.
With a glancing turn of the earth
light, through cloudy skies, spills
liquid gold onto the horizon
waking the world to blue or gray
white powder puffs or streaking, stretching clouds ~
horsetails my father told me.
When morning comes
the artist paints with sun-rays,
textures with shadow.
Morning comes slowly ~
cold, moist night air sprinkles
delicate silver white glitter
on trees and roof tops,
rocks and fences,
even the most fragile twig,
the tiniest pebble
Morning comes before
my eyes are ready to open
but my senses feel the dawning,
twittering, sleepy birds sense the glow
When morning comes it is time.
Time for a stretch and a yawn
until day gently breaks the night
to blossom on our up side world
while the down under world
settles to sleep.
“In these times you have to be an optimist
to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.”
~ Carl Sandburg
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