On Friday April Seven
C-oal clouds in the sky
H-ave all become white;
E-arly morn has broken, leaving the dark of night.
E-vening shadows disappear,
C-old chill fades away;
L-et the warmth of sunlight
A-im to bathe the day.
R-ugged wind of the storm
I-sn't found neath the heaven;
N-ew dawn denies the dusk,
O-n Friday April seven.
Copyright © Bernard F. Asuncion | Year Posted 2018
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