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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