Morning

lost in the fragrance of morning,
the settling of dew upon summer’s rest-
what stirs the quiet waiting,
of the songbird’s voice-
above the dim of night,
into streams of light-
shadowing the dark,
with movement of orange upon blue blending-
it all seems new again,
it takes me to my living-
breathing morning in,
as if for the first time-
holding the miracle of its opening,
quiet hush unfolding-
into the song of life rising.

Author Maureen Kwiat Meshenberg ©