To Sing Upon a Crested Moon

On the threshold of the evening Before me, mounds of dead leaves Brown, limply sodden, resistant to angry winds I stand and watch another day's bitter passage Coiled with the same winter darkness I croon my spring serenade of loneliness My voice fills the void with sad lyric Which dwells over mornings that couldn't be sung When fog hooded the appearance of the sun And the frost hid the garland of green Yet, here, at last, peeking through the doleful gray The stars are shining.. As if been sewn upon the fabric of a sequined sky Beckoning my song to reach the crested moon With the knowledge that tomorrow will come....tomorrow will come... ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Inspired by Brian's Strand's contest "Tomorrow is Another Day"