Each morning, the earth and sky meet,
At first lightly touching, eventually adjoining,
And finally presenting a blend of color,
A spectrum of pink, orange, and gold…
In all their glory.
The trumpets sound, signifying a new day,
Unlike every other, yet it is still Monday.
It seems the birds and insects congregate,
Preparing an intricate symphony,
An orchestra of billions of noises,
Each his own.
And still no one knows
Who has danced upon the grass,
Sprinkling flawless, spherical drops
Of water, frosted with glittering crystal,
Onto the earth on which we walk,
That seems so common by ten ‘o clock.
And shameful, I feel at times
When I miss the air at its cleanest
By an hour or two, or more;
When I miss the symphonic chirps,
The dampened grass and rainbow sky,
I am mournful.
Thought it seems I always recall
The orchestra performs again tomorrow
Around the time of dawn.