The morning rises like a flower
Newly watered, sunned and powered,
But rises heavy, like the plant
That, sustenance-filled, droops first to pant.
Though still it comes in all its weight,
Making eyes open slow like fate,
And making the man slowly roll
From bed to hardness – full to hole,
And then making him trudge along –
An off-key, mismatched, unknown song.
And as he slides with feet like hooves,
He slowly searches for day’s grooves,
And questions why he searches so,
Like he’s a train afraid to go
Apart from its track straight and worn
To places grand, unknown, untorn.
And so he wonders faraway
If something new should make the day,
And wonders why, and wonders how,
And wonders if the past is now.
He sighs a sigh empty and sad
As if the day’s some long-worn fad,
And looks around his quiet world
At sights unseen and sounds unheard.
And these things touch his consciousness
A little more, a little less,
Like a caressing summer breeze,
Or a child wishing please,
So that he looks around once more
At things so different than before,
And then he spots the well-used tracks
And rides along, and sees the lacks
Of cities far and cities grand
Fade before a humbler land.
Just like the plant inside its fence
That each day finds new sustenance,
And dreams of all the fence can be
And enters then the best city.



Filed under Poems

2 responses to “Morning

  1. Did you write this? It’s a wonderful poem!! 🙂

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