These Hazy Days

Morning Stirs

A robin awakens before dawn.

She sees the moon hanging

Limply, sleeping, on the

Wrinkled brow of ever-watching sky.

All the world's denizens, they

Slumber among the brewing springtime

Under the gentle blanket

Draped upon them, the sky's

Knowing quilt. It is sewn from

Patches of every land, every sea,

Stitched together by the loving

Hands of westerly wind.

The robin leaps into the

Solemn air; the pre-morning

Is silent, save for the lulling

Hum of dew upon the grass.

The robin feels a song stir

Within its breast. Its lungs

Are soft and clear, always

Open to the language that

Flows from one solitary

Breath--hidden--unconsciously

To another. The robin sings.

The tired mist fades ever so

Quietly into the almost-day,

And the moon opens a rested eye.

The sun shines pastel beside it,

Wordless with ancient purpose.

The moon nods and moves aside

To share the wheel of hopeful day.

The robin cries as the light

Begins to glow upon the

Small green folds of grass,

And others join in its glorious song.