The morning brings a clear hue of crystal blue,
Time chases the steam away, to a reigning sea,
A wake, now I’m in, everything I hope,
Broken winds that don’t move me, but I follow.

I’ve heard the life embellished,
In the story that might have been, or might be mine,
To the point of rest, this measure is sound to me,
Cast me into this, the resolution of my dream.

Seeing the bird high, is it higher than the mountains?
And can it find the valley in the wind.
I want to see where you go and where you live,
Not to let you disappear in a clouds.

The natural breath it plays,
Close to the growth, the plants, the trees,
And to the erode of the flow,
The changes will come after the play.

No tender flower grows without a fight,
It may show you which will be picked,
“Please pick me,” as to who I’ll say,
Grander are the hands, spite the grip.

Why is this, the color you have in the morning light?
But it’s only the passion I need to see,
That is love to me.
It will still flow into the morning light I see,
I will yonder to even the second that I may lose.

The wind is strong now, and had closed my eyes,
Only to find I’ve missed the bloom,
Of an untouched rose I have not known to be there,
But all the signs were there in the wind that past.

I’m in my fall, even a shore with no tide,
But it’s the moon I’m here for to dance in, as I please.
I’ve shown the etched detail of a life in the sand,
My feet lead, only then to catch myself as I see.

Not a tree; a branch, a leaf, plucked, pruned, or pride upon it,
It’s a forest unchanged, but by the nature of it,
It will always give the strongest hope, that a flower,
In a hospitable but beautiful scene, meant to fad in the stars at night.

©2007, Ron Globe