Morning Grace Poem by Paul Barrowman

A gently played note, low and calm. The first rays of sun spilling over rolling plains. Pluck the note again, this time with more force, The sound builds. An ocean of awakend serenity rolls on The shores of mountains and mankinds concurred empires. The note is hit hard and builds once more, this times with more ferocity than the last. A full seranade, a crescendo of light, an orchestra of pure creation, Louder and more profound than the last. The black of the eye focuses and the mind wonders, the observer is filled with the gift of the morning grace.