Welcome to Day 16. Thank you for joining me on this journey. To read all posts in this series, click on the page tab marked #write31days at the top of my home page. Poetry has returned after taking Wednesday off. More prose awaits around the dusty bend.
If I took the reigns for just a day
Took charge and had control, choreographer
Of each hour
Of the night and day
I would give the morning more
Morphing all the hours into
Break of, early, mid
Stopping at noonday
Morning’s sunrise slow and sure
Would have till noon
To spread her blinding sunburst wings
Across the sleepy sky
Would let the shadows slow dance
Silhouetted ghosts at play
I’d give the early morning all she’d need
Let the dew stay
More than just a little while
Unhurried on each blade of emerald
Grass, like glass
Never to evaporate
Tell her that her morning chill
Can have all day
To brush across the faces
Of those who take their time to wake
And breathe their smokey breathes
I’d crown morning
Let her reign
Over every living thing
If I had my way
I’d never have to say
Good bye my dear
Or wave a sad goodbye
When Autumn rolls around in the deep South
Sometimes you get to crack a window.
Sometimes you get to raise it high
At night in the fall, every now and
Every once in a blue moon, you cut off the air
And breathe in the fresh,
In the South sometimes.
And if you do
And when you do
You enter a Lewis Carroll world of wonder
And whimsy resides in the night and in the dawn.
In the South after summer when the fall rolls around
Like a big sweaty mess she arrives.
But sometimes she sits still
Long enough to cool off and breathe deep
A touch of crisp
Blowing in the window raised high
Or even two up to catch the wonder, catch the breeze
Hear the whimsy in the morning
Wipes the dew off her brow, we don’t sweat, we Southern women
And Autumn is a lady.
Fanning herself in the cool of the evening, sipping tea
And blowing her fresh air through the curtains,
Billowing, white cotton- grandmother’s.
There is a feathered one there at dark early, dark thirty.
He sounds like a feathered stand up, doing his best to sound
Like a bird.
Truth is stranger than fiction.
Truth is its a bird chirping out bird morse code
In the dark, in the wonder, in the whimsy.
Truth is he sounds more like a psalmist
Announcing the new mercy of the morning
In the cool, in the dark, in the deep South.
Truth is he invites by proclamation.
Come wander in wonder and wade in whimsy
And see what new awaits
In the cool in the fall in the South.
He made, He invites, He extends
A walk into new, a journey
On the trail of the psalmist bird, dropped
Like breadcrumbs, wooing us
To the wonder of it all.
When Autumn rolls around in the deep
In the South
At His command.
And the small feathered ones
Seem to always know first,
As they call us out
Of the sleepy
And wake us up to wonder.