A Song for the Morning - A poem

A Song for the Morning

Often, dew of morning leaves sits quaint on bent stalk

waiting to be crystallized in the morning frost.  A desert

sparkles its ice under a rising sun not yet realizing

it will return to liquefying as the star stares more

into the earth.  The beams of light drift across

breathless space, tagging Mercury and Venus

before kissing the atmosphere and tonguing

its way through.   Ice begins to thaw, and summer

continues to persist through the winter morning.

It takes moments to forget that snow wanted to grow

from dirt and grass stems, that ice begged to exist

amidst the brightened June, hugging to an evergreen

friend bent in a relaxing breeze.   Morphing back to droplets,

the dew dips and falls from the top most pine,

to tiniest dandelion, and impact in whispers against

the ground as the sun fondles the earth.  An army

of water seeps into the ground, through the soil,

is gobbled up by roots, succulent mana for the stems

before some of it eventually escapes.   A catacomb

beneath the dirt, a river plucked and stolen from

by animals and plants of all shapes and sizes,

forgetting that they could be hard, the dew, the stream,

the army of water dreams of ascension, a place in the heavens

forgetting they will be showered back to the earth,

but maybe some anticipate this return with satisfaction,

because for a second they blanketed the earth

in crystalline desert.