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The Syrup, the Sap

In the morning there is meaning.
Look at the sunrise,
There is feeling in the morning.
Sweet sadness.
Bliss happiness.
Memories reveal themselves in the morning.
The dewy shine of sun rays on the sodden grass.
The between is turning in these,
Thick rays,
Reflecting of the glassy droplets.
The golden rays reflecting on dirty window panes-
Not a sound in the air but the sun, softly rising.

Silent birds finding bliss on the wet ground.
A cold gust of wind pushes the grass
Chills the little creatures hopping in the dew.
Ruffles in their gray feathers.

The dew melts in the beating ground.
Soggy dirt melting into the core of our earth.
The chickadees take flight and push through the shadows of the sun.
In the morning there is meaning.
There is still no murmur in the air.





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mmmggg said...
Sept. 10, 2011 at 8:17 pm
This is New England before winter, quiet but not quite silent. 
 
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