Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Morning wakes in a breath of air damp with the sweet scent of dew,
with its silver sky a clustered fog from the early showers.
The sea laps its swift waves under a weary blanket of blue
Behind a rusted rail that bears trumpet-like purple flowers.
The vines twine and twist, weave and wreathe in long lines of summer green
That blossom buds which curl, furl and spiral in quiet blooming.
They stretch their necks to the wide-rimmed sun whose light shines clear and clean,
And soak in its warm heating rays to catch its golden glowing.
The papery petals burst sideways, streaked pale with pure sunlight,
Turning translucent, soft like tissue pulp, as the day runs on.
But as midday passes, they start to shrink, shriveling in sight;
Then at long last, all parched and wilted, they wither with a yawn.
Night sweeps its dark cloak over the trees and stubs the void with stars.
How fleetingly the morning glories live, lovely as they are.