A Songbird Climbs
In breaths of morning dawn the generations before would drift through my mind. A legacy of gold and silver in depths of the dawning rise and in a picture book of vivid yesteryears I would climb. From the feathered pillow to the creaking oak floor, across the hall to the kitchen where the steamy coffee I would pour. Drowning in my coffee gaze a sweet reflection of Grandpa's face, deep beneath the creamy clouds with one raised brow, hair silver brown.
through the aged window
upon the swaying wheat field
a songbird climbs
Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2017