Morning Song


Red sky at sunrise

silhouettes trees,

where one shadow lists

to the freeze


inclined to escape

the solid space


into airy


at large.


A neighbor’s,

it seems,

to seek,



it enamors

for that which it longs.


And the birds

sing along


in a cold harbored throng –


“Come on” “Come on”


“Get going along.”



And when trees leave,

as always they will,

in the fall

to the call

of the wild,


all empty nests

will come to a rest


upon shards

in the yards

of the child.






Copyright © 2012 Marvin Loyd Welborn. All Rights Reserved.


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