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Garden
March 19, 2012
The warm moon melts into the willowed morn
And moaning, you arise from slumbered sleep.
Crackled and bright, lightning from storm forlorn
Begins to thunder as the sky-tears creep.
Stumbling, you fall from atop your bed
Into the dark and endless floor below
And hit the ground like you’re a block of lead.
Your fall so quick, yet days rush on so slow.
Not quite the best way to open today,
But at ten the sun raises his red head.
At zenith’s point, hot fires attempt to flame
And dissipate the rain in singéd tread.
A day that very well may start with show’r
Can quickly turn into a bloss’ming flow’r.
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