Four In the Morning
The globe is gliding round the one that glows,
Which nestles insidiousely in the east,
Owls coo and raindrops throw,
Their waters down for the flora's feast.
Twilight trickles away like the morning dew,
That twinkles in starlight upon the shore of the sky,
Waxing away what is left of the few,
Shadows whose noblesse oblige is nigh.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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