A view from my mourning eyes

In the early morning frost
you are the hope of a new day,
a vision draped comfortably
over the breath that covers trees.

The light of your spirit bursts
onto open hill peaks, where
I call to the revolving winds
with a name on balancing tongue.

I am hers, I am hers, so howls
a trapped soul searching the horizon.
Distant gardener, how silently
you tend these forgotten fields.

Hardened ground shivers with the
cold footsteps that pace along
empty furrows and sweet dreams
untouched by the air’s bitter taste.

In the early morning frost
you are the hope of a new day.
A vision draped comfortably
over the breath that covers trees.

You are the familiar unknown
of an infinite yearning,
the long pull from a spiced cup,
and tired eyes mourn the absence.

a-view-from-my-mourning-eyes

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