Morning Poem, March 8, 2017

 

The bright quarter moon on its rocker leans back

And paints the evening blue, not black

.

The houses, streets and power lines

The smell of coming rain, so fine

.

And to the south the long clouds whisper

Lit by the moon like wizard’s whiskers

.

Nothing moves on the silvered lawns

The bedroom lights are off till dawn

.

Till then the windows all are dark

And silence reigns throughout the park.

 

copyright 2017

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