A Trans-Morning Tease
A lone stoic blackbird
sat on a lamp post squawking
away; his eerie crowing
piercing the graveyard silence.
The sleepy yawning sun
pulled himself up
and over the shading horizon;
reflecting a golden glow.
The quiet air was as still as
an aged autumn tree—standing
all alone—naked, and as shameless
as was Joan of Arc, herself.
Springtime has long passed on
and autumn/fall has begun to wane;
however, the morning sun slowly prepares
himself to resist the coming tease of winter.
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