by Brian Willett

Created on: December 31, 2008

The morning metallic
Conducting cold
Heavy air hesitates
waits
for the all clear.

The secrets of the day
no longer in shadow
but still shrouded in mist
their names
unspeakable.

The moisture in the air
of tears not yet cried
but they well in your throat
in silence
no place to hide.

The dawn doesn't burst
as much as it blooms
drifting lazily
out of slumber
torpid yet transient too.

The clouds slowly yield
to a hazy new sun
whose rays stretch out
and sow the seeds
of a new day's dreams.

The birth of possibility

is solemn as a wake

nature dressed in its best

before the hours

exhaust the enthusiasm.

The orange orb floats

its colors as warning

a message mostly misunderstood

as naivety

is seduced by the beauty.

The whisper of wind

not yet audible

as earth trembles before time

and its mighty soul

cannot find its voice.

The morning here pauses

and contemplates

the meaning

of motion

and morning.

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