Thought Reaches Through the Waking-ness of Morn...

Thought reaches through the waking-ness of morn

How is it; from the dark a day is born

And from the day a night in soft descent

Soon tucks the earth beneath obsidian tent

Before the morn is re-born and the air

Is filled with untouched things and hope and prayer

Now it is spring and we are glad to dream

Though middle-age is caught somewhere between

The dash of youth and that more genteel pause

Where thought tends to retrace a time that was

…though we admit to be caught by surprise

At how blithely a little season flies

Upon the tree each bud unfolds its due

In flower-gardens brushed on azure blue

Before the fullness of green leaf applauds

The happiness of summer hours shod

With eager haste, for what; we cannot know

The lad beside me tugs my hand to ‘go’

Kind urgency of tick-tock taps its lay

The dole of Duty keeps our fears at bay

For evidence of grace ignites the sky

Where fretwork fields of ‘almost summer’ sigh

As tree-limbs flaunt lacy extravagance

We grasp the coat-tails of new day to dance

Thought reaches through the waking-ness of morn

How is it; from the dark a day is born

And from the day a night in soft descent

Soon tucks the earth beneath obsidian tent

Before the morn is re-born; now the air

Is filled with Majesty and hope and prayer

© Janet Martin