A small pink petal of light fluttered gracefully down
to where it fell limply over the pale cheek of morning.
The soft sliver of a sun's lonely blink
danced over the slate-cold wall of the tree line.
Each yawning branch stretched aside the sprinting beam,
pushing it away with annoyance and weary boredom.

The gray humps of a thousand aging soldiers
bent towards the earth in elder pain,
greeting the rich soil with slapping sways of eager sleep.
Gaping their grouch knots wide for the refreshment of
the new day's whisper of glitzy birdcalls and stirring buds.

While the tender sobs of Dutch harvest cooled the air,
the standing corn stacks weep.
Pearl beads rolling down their yellow noses,
anxiously waiting for the spectacle of the majestic bulb to rise.
The swelling eye that would wipe away the crop's tears
glowing with luminous delight, the phenomenon of the morning.

Dawn brings upon the siege of hearts,
the capture of a thousand waking eyes
set patiently to the dispersing waves of rose and cream mist.
Ears sighing with relief as they witness another magic of coos and whistles,
splashing lilac and russet rainbows that lace gently round the cranky army.
'Maude, how has your day been going?'�
'The morning's bright,
whom all whose right,
I see the moon a showing!'�
cries the finch.

So with patient faces the earth swallows the poison of a sun-stained air.
Pinning back with silent frustration as the bitter evening holds
the stagnant cup of a dewy fog.
'Sorrow, morrow, the sun will rise a floating flower.'�
sighed the morning dove.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...