Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2010
I love to walk the fields at dawn,
barefoot through the dew.
To sit and watch the rising sun
turn the dark sky blue.

Some days are bright with promise,
like a budding tree.
Some are dark and blow right by
like an autumn leaf.

Each day is a gift we’re given,
fragile, like fine glass.
Ours to mold and try to hold
before it hurries past.

Β© 2000 Guy Workman
Written by
Guy Workman
757
   Elfie Mac and OnlyEggy
Please log in to view and add comments on poems