The morning mist washes over the Cedars.
Gross Beaks and Sparrows still doze in the trees.
An opaque curtain of gray clouds
shrouds the mighty mountain tops.
It is the birth of a new day
not yet licked clean by wind, sun, or rain.
Innocence and evil also lie still.
History with its many secrets,
a product of man’s fickle will,
waits deep in the ancient forest.
It is the birth of a new day.
Patricia A. Hare
Marvelous!
I so admire your poetry. One of the best parts of our monthly get together is to anticipate your next poem
Thanks Barb.
Hey Jerry,
Your are giving me some competition.