Poetry: The Quiet Morning

The Quiet Morning

 

I see the trees they’re

Waving at me, gold                         

Dreams I arouse from

The hive, a glass

Line hangs linen

Opal scattered

Sun pierces through

The colony

Ashen in sleep

Slowly creeping

To morning dew

I soar above

Geranium

Her nectar sweet  

But my old flame

Tempts me with her

Long slender neck

Under wispy

Endless sky, my

Aerial view

Of Hollyhock

Thrusting solar

Pollen wands

Sugar too rich

Undeserving

Even to stare

For summer is

Never enough

When the foxglove

Begins to wilt

And the clover

Which possesses

Enchanting groves

Surrenders its

Grip, the bitter

Frost, which will sting

And shock the growth

Sudden to halt

So it is, now

I must persist

Foraging the orchards

Ere young crimson

Recoils pose.


 

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