Mornings

Morning mist
settles over the crisp air
enduring long enough
to fog vision
with the screens of winter’s blush

The air flushed
gathering gusts in bursts
clashing against the ice and mud
unable to uproot the standing
of the firm wintry mixture

The morning is a time of tranquility
when little stirs
and most is blurred
by the spirit of the season
the air thickened with purity of prospect

When the windows are opened
and the day is welcomed
with open arms in congested spaces
the breaths of fresh air
are infused with nature’s gentle wisdom

The light bathes the morose
washes the waning hope of darkness
rushing in to greet the indoors
the entrails of expectation
now entrenched in my pores

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