The day opened with morning light upon my mind,
as it shined through the pines and greeted my face
with its splendid grace as I sat to write on ancient
scrolls as the new morning began to unfold,
with a paper tablet and a spring in the open pen
with the love of a dove in my ears I couldn’t see,
but the voice was as clear as the hoot owl,
when the sun goes down as its glorious voice
of cheer touches my ears when dark of night appears,
the well-equipped voice of the brown thrasher for its,
reasons and rhymes, had flown out of his brush line into the sun,
while the chipmunk with little feet and toes found its grace,
with a morning breakfast plate, it had under its tiny nose,
as the red vested cardinal joined in the morning dance of life,
brightening up a dead branch on the oak tree in the morning light,
the chorus of morning birds were singing cheerfully,
as a woodpecker rolled the wooden drums,
echoing down to me from the forest hillside up above,
the love of the dove kept signaling its peace,
that the dark of night could no longer keep
The Morning Light
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