There is nothing quite like the morning dew.
Shimmering in the budding sunlight,
refracting light into a prism of splendor.
Present at the world's rebirth; lost in the hours to come.
Yet always emerging anew.
For this beauty is not one of mourning;
it is just simply the morning dew.

As the sun cries itself to sleep
His room is flooded
With warm, gentle, orange glow

The sun
Like her coffee-flavored kisses
Refuses to be forgotten

Sunset
Slip quietly and sadly beyond view

Sunset
A revelation
That end holds beauty too