Cool Morning

At the tree line,

pale sky tingles

with cold pink blurs;

just above it,

periwinkle

puffs and patches;

the wan sun stirs,

bleary blue blinks,

yawns and brightens.

The day is waking

and the clouds aching,

in wispy whispers

blow white wind below.

Crispy air curdles

and orange leaves sway, and

on the grass, dewdrops

kiss stiff yellow blades.

Ruddy squirrels skip

under black oak shade.

The glowering glade

evades thawing rays;

ever evergreen,

it demands to stay.

“Suit yourself,” the sun sighs.

“I always do,” the glade

replies, then freezes, dies.

In farewell, the brown sparrow cries;

squirrels burrow, saying goodbye.