Morning Poem, February 10, 2017


There are voices in the first grey of morning

Whispers that recall old promises

Like showers of rain on the mown grass

And the flourishing of the righteous

And songs of ancient dreams

But who can hear them?

Whose ear is to the wind?

Whose eye is on the heavens?

Who looks for a sign?


Oh, wait

Wait, you who once were young

And turn away from every care

Before the engines rattle and hum

Before the heat and burden of the day

And believe, or remember how you once believed

And listen again.


copyright 2017

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