Each New Morning
A poem
THE LARK
A poem
Rain popping on tall tin roofs,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary old cherry tree.
She bleeds beauty so well.
I fall prey
to waking dawn’s deceit,
and I am too fragile
to bear the weight of words.
I weep for unfinished dreams,
looking for souls who are not there
as shadows pool in silhouette,
drowning, colors starved of light.
Beware of the chill
that folds the flower,
beware the breath
that ends the hour.