Spiritium

From here the morning is still, No leaves remain on the earth's floor, To be kidnapped by the January wind, Release in the captive embrace of nature, To be carried toward the dawn's divide. From this thought, The palette of sunset, Marries the magenta and scorched tangerine, In a painting only created by the glorious. Forget not the beckoning. Of quiet hues blending into a vision, Seldom vision can cast eyes unto. It is beautiful to be living, The dream of the past, Remains scattered, Fragments redeemed here. But the poet is here, Humble and listening, Watching the world unfold, It's gentle and giving hands, And granting the soul a poem, In the momentum's bless.