Sunrise Hymnal

On one hand it’d be nice to write in a tone that’s vaguely familiar,
a tone warm and comforting. On the other I’ve done this
nineteen times and I’ve never been to Idaho,
ah, so it goes. It’s the morning-what
better time to write- a bit cloudy not
the melancholy “it’s cloudy heavy sigh
cloudy but the slightly mysterious
cloudy. The cloudy that forecasts
adventure or a simple day of
Cleaning and hot tea. A
soft layer of snow
blankets the Earth
freshly fallen broken
up by tender
footprints
from squirrels
foraging for food
or dogs excitedly getting
their morning walk in. A
quiet serene morning, to my right
a pale owl mug holds the vapor
of green tea with a hint of chamomile
and upon listening, watching the morning
cautiously fold into something grand or another
day like yesterday, hawks sing from pine tree
minarets as if they themselves are shepherds chosen
To guide the thatched rooftops into the light of afternoon and
eventually into the glitter of Spring. Each new noise that pulls itself
from the east brings to me another place I’ve never been
to. A plane flying above this, flying through the ever present gold floating so
simply above our heads. Oak trees rattle like modest monuments whispering
stories, if only I could speak their language but I cannot and that’s just
as beautiful.

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Author: Montana Svoboda

I'm a genderless poet currently living in Central Michigan where I attend college for Environmental Science and English. Nature's some cool shit, frisbee's a neat activity, fountain pens are best pens, Latakia for life, coffee and tea keep these gears turning.

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