Glory of the morning
Though now 'full growed',
I still can roll on the grass
and look up at the flowers.
Writ last weekend
The Morning Glories
There are places on the earth where men are not welcome.
Some are too auster -- forbidding,
shaped of claw and tooth, bare bones or dragon scales,
such that life cannot sustain there.
Others are too sacred -- hallowed,
kissed by faerie lights, knowing breeze or birthing dew,
such that most men never find them.
Then there are those rare smiling spots,
dimples in the laughing face of God,
where words like snuggle, amble and “bye ‘n bye”
sit easy like welcome shade on a bright spirit afternoon.
You will rightly know such a place when you chance by,
for man’s gentle touch does but carress
the open invitation of ole lady nature.
Rough cut boards are weathered gray,
and vines allowed to hold up angles fences,
while tiny flowers of natural found,
smile up at asure morning-glories.
Show me the man who will allow the weed
and the woman who would plant the flower --
each with a right to praise life and all,
and you will find laughter by the stream,
and prayers rising with the bluish smoke,
and trails that remember lover’s walking hand in hand.
Go there, rest there --
be now one with peace and simple wonder.
Find ye a hollow with hemlock and maple,
scramble grass and forever berries,
and crickit dreams and flutter-byes --
and the blue eyes of glory in the morning.