The Poetry of the Morning



The morning repeats itself, its poetry

Heard where feet first touch the floor

Upon which the soldiers of old

March in lockstep, fighting in vain

Against a newer yet ageless force.

The morning reveals itself, its long

Limbs stretching namelessly

Across the face of solitude,

While through a thousand windows

Sunlight makes mist of dreams and dreamers.

The morning teases itself,

Its abdomen pressing against

The smooth back of darkness,

An embrace replete with the hope and fear

Of another day.

Yet the morning surprises itself, too,

Its stark clarity sometimes

Sculpting a lover of longing,

An action of lofty words,

A poem of an idea.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009