Outside My Window
In its serenity, the morning is painted
In shades of misty gray, in shades
Of fading green, in shades of dripping wet,
Persevering. Waiting for relief.
The only trees visible are silhouetted
Against the hidden lane called Hanging Rock,
The fog having painted a mostly surreal scene
Outside of my window.
Like so many silent ghosts, the trees wait
As in a deserted cemetery and the wind,
Hesitantly accepting the invitation of the mist
Brushes up against the face of the day.
It dances lightly on the leaves, a swaying
Now rocking tempo, as if to celebrate
The Celtic music I hear in the backdrop
Of this late summer morning.
Hath not Mother Nature gifted me
With a blanket of caution, a cocoon
In which to be kept, until the sun returns
And releases her warmth?
Hath she not spoken in shades of gray
So that when I see the golden colors
Of the sun I might appreciate once again
The gift of blue above my mountain home?
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