Slowly, gently,
The morning beckons
With dawn
Beginning to break
Beyond the oaks
At the east end
Of my yard.
The first pink rays
Of the waking sun
Give the cool air
A pearlescent glow
Visible through
The filter
Of the white
Curtain sheers;
Beneath the boughs
Of the evergreens
Standing protectively
Outside
My bedroom window
I hear the coo
Of mourning doves
Waiting impatiently
For the left over bread
I feed them each morning,
While near to the barn
The rooster crows imperiously,
Seemingly ignored by
The clucking hens
No doubt scratching
For breakfast
In the dirt.
Like the doves,
The horses are restless,
Demandingly kicking
The walls of their stalls,
Wanting their ration
Of grain and timothy hay
Before being released
To frolic in the pasture
Lush with blue green grass;
And behind me,
Still slumbering,
His strong arm
Securely about my waist,
The gentle man
Who brought me here
So many years ago.
There's nothing like
A morning in the country,
A peaceful start
To whatever my day
May bring.