Morning Come

Morning Come. Swirling, cinnamon peppered, neapolitan skies, beckon like candy to my famished searching eyes. Western honey colored rays burning through shades of grays, can’t penetrate the stacks of Nimbus blacks, but quick crackling shards of blinding , silver slivers, pierce that formidable canopy as Sun’s pride withers. The night and storm has won. Morning, come. composed by Robert A. Dufresne