Early mornings
Fading away in the smoke of a cigarette,
Rising clouds of coffee flavors,
Listening to the creek sing
To all the spiders resting on their webs.
A squirrel stops by, gazing at me
With a walnut in its paws.
She would trade it for my smile,
But winter is coming soon.
Smiles she will see again,
When my children come outside to play.
Silence is gently disturbed
By the music of birds
That haven’t yet left for Africa.
It’s just another Sunday morning,
Like most of them are,
Yet something lingers, a quiet ache—
A reminder that moments, like mist,
Dissolve into the past too soon.
For the rest of the world,
A cold darkness plays
On a bullet symphony.
One day, this will all be gone,
These fragile mornings lost,
Like whispers carried by the wind.
What will come?
Depends on us.
But till then, now,
It’s another beautiful morning,
Touched by a fleeting sadness,
Knowing all beauty is destined to fade,
Yet in every sunrise,
There’s a promise of renewal,
And each new morning,
A chance to begin again.
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