Colors of the Morning
One early autumn morning, before the sun awoke,
before the moon had disappeared, or any robin spoke.
I opened up my window to feel the breezes play
and let a breath of beauty in before the hectic day.
I gazed across the river, where hills of palest green,
like candle-lighted altars, glowed soft in morning's sheen.
The crowds of hooded oak trees, a congregation there,
drew close their cloaks of shadow and bowed as if in prayer.
While gray upon the distance there lay a fragile mist,
as wispy as a spider's web, as gentle as a kiss.
The colors of the morning, a palette softly spun,
would linger but a moment more before the singing sun.
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