Dawn drifts over the ridge
Into the deep grayness of fog.
Reluctantly the sun
Relinquishes the day
As the light moves
From shadow to shade,
Stripping color from prism’d palette
Revealing only gray scale.
In the murky afternoon,
Dusk extinguishes
The last frail lamp
And night returns to night.
Succumbing to the weather,
Misery has its own forecast.
Should I complain about the fog?
It rises from the morning cove
expanding its horizon to the ridge
only to dissipate into crows wings
and the sad song of the loon.
No sense in whining about that which will disappear soon enough.
Aches and pains from the weather are soon forgotten
when watching sparrows wreath
the venerable brows of the old oaks
in their winter slumber.
No,
complaint does me no good-
and I shall learn that lesson once again
as the morning sun sparks through the prismed window
sending rainbows dancing across my kitchen floor.
Receding fog on the cove
We woke to deep fog.
Air so thick with moisture, water droplets formed on everything. We were drenched just taking our early morning walk with Theo.
As the clouds began to lift and the morning began to brighten, the brilliantly clear and LOUD song of a wren pierced the misty air.
As more of the fog receded and the sky became brighter, the louder her song. She was very proud of her effort and continued in full throated triumph until the sun had broken through and the skies revealed the beautiful sapphire blue of late winters day.
small brown wren
in glorious song
singing as if she alone is responsible
for the rising of the sun
Farewell to yesterdays sapphire skies, today dawned to the gray veil of rain.
rain, cold and misty,
veils the morning
with pale gray clouds
and silver music
Filtered mists
rise along the ridgeline,
tracing our headlights back
to their source
as startled eyes in the dark woods edge
blink
in the fog glanced glare.
Porchlights dim glow
thru the dense rich fog
showing the way to hidden homes
and hollows
in the night’s smoky gloom.
The infinite patination of fog
on a dark ridge road,
foxed night air,
the color of tarnished silver mirrors,
reflecting only our headlights
as we head home.
trumpeting from the gray skies
wild geese rise from the cove
call to worship
***
majestic maples
robed in scarlet leaves
Sunday vestments
***
small boats
bob in the morning rain
heads bowed in prayer
***
mists hover over the gray water
rising to meet the clouds
morning meditation
Early morning fog obscures the eastern ridge,
holding the dawning sun at bay-
resting its gray blanket across the still waters,
soft as the color of heron wings.
Warm fog obscures the bath’s mirror-
holding the real world at bay.
Resting your face against my neck-
softly our hair entwines, the color of heron wings.
*** for imaginary garden with real toads 55 word prompt and poets united poetry pantry
gray morning
the color
of heron wings
fog filled night
dark so deep
the moon
has abandoned
the sky
humid haze
dawn veiled in mist
blushing sky
***
morning breaks over the ridge
catching the mist and the swallows
hovering over the water
***
morning mist hangs from the trees
draping itself from each bough
a coverlet of dew
***
dew drenched
seed heads sparkle
rainbows in the meadow
***
dew spangled webs
glistening in the sun
soon invisible
morning magic
thecourseofourseasons 