The morning light is dim,
a veil of mist and pewter sky
where cool leaves, crisp and perfect,
lay still in wait for wind of fate,
await some crunch from out the door
that doesn’t hear what was before.
Penetrate the mist of time
and walk into the silent morning,
hushed somehow where are the birds?
A footfall’s like a spoken word.
Looking for the sweet release
of knowing this covered canopy
only awaits the afternoon.
Would the gate be closed to me
between this minute and the next,
how bide the glorious delay?
Wipe the friendly imperfect glass,
erase the rainbow that is fake,
take what is real.