The lights through the windows
Seems brighter in their way,
In bringing forth the daytime
And feeling it on its way.
A walk through the cemetery
Seems to find its peace, as stone and marble
Form the days own face,
Like marks at the surface, each stone states ahead,
The eastern sun rising, making the day
Turn and find one pausing,
But to keep the tortured soul abreast
Life's dreams stay floating, and we
Rise and make life grand.

Embers burn with red reminders, of heat not yet gone,
With browns and blacks and whites falling from the yellowed mass,
Crooked lines soaring upward, waiting to be broken,
Brought down again in breaking easy falls.
The noise is pretty, a kind of whistle, with cracks and peeling
Sounds, wrapped around the wood, the limbs, the listener
All in one, with the darkness outside growing blacker
And the stillness becoming more and more still,
With eyes locked firmly on the light
Of the simple fire,
Going out.

It is a startling thing
To find the reality in the mood,
To see the nearness in the attitude,
All of this like a dyers pen, writing softly on the soul,
Feeling the damp cloth beneath, feeling the warmth
Of the body,
As it finds itself,
With each stroke, and turn, and guided groove
Of the pen,
Which rests so gently against
The cloth,
Brushing it, touching it, making the feel of it
So soft, so gentle, with a touch of roughness
That makes it real.

The soft touch of morning
Rises to meet the late breaking day
Covered up and clouded, and looking lonely.
Dark birds and their shadows fly low, and South, in a hurry,
Sounds are loud and crack the mornings air, with their breaking,
And ice pops  and water wheezes beneath the shallow pools,
With air moving quietly up and out,
And winters grass riffles, with the cold air moving in and around,
And the seed of this morning, that shall become the plant of the day,
Can see the sun, and feel its' warmth, even in the cold.