Dawning
When the sky bleeds solitude
like a wounded weeping heart and
the horizon’s embrace wraps valleys about eternity,
then, only then, can the bountiful earth find love.
Crimson dawns feed the artist eye, and poet’s pen
for all that’s green and wonderful must bleed, and rise, and die.
Each reflection rainbowed in cirrus cloud’s caress
or white capped ocean wave combine
Blue bloods of forest’s fringe between earth and sky,
meadowlark and nightingale
a wedding bell of bliss,
the mornings brings…
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