WL Schuett

The Morning

morning whispers 

a mystic tremor 

as souls awake 

 

yawning woman 

tosses the covers 

as dawn awaits 

 

dreamy eyes cast 

upon the broken sky 

getting dressed 

 

sleepy words hush

 the newly born mornings 

sweet caress 

 

coffee aroma fills 

her heart as she moves 

down the stairs 

 

familiar creaks and moans 

follow her to the kitchen 

she pours a cup 

 

Morning whispers 

her mystical name as her 

soul wakes up 

 

morning shows her the road 

she thought she could 

never take 

 

On through the roses 

past the malestream  

Of mornings gate 

 

the morning trembles 

she is all the things that 

the night forsakes 

 

she alone is the spirit 

who won’t allow her 

heart to break 

 

spirits lift and gently 

prod her as she 

becomes aware 

 

she is the morning