The Lark
Published in

The Lark

September Morning — All Will Be Mist

Poetry

The sun rises over a misty landscape dotted with trees.
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash

My chair is wet, even through a towel.
Coffee cannot penetrate this morning’s chill.

Each slender grass stalk glistens.
The rain has left droplets, jewels on shimmering green.

A blue jay hops on branches of the maple
raining plops on the lawn.

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Cat Strav

Yogi. Wordsmith. Hutch Pup. Diagnosed with I.O. (idiotic optimism) since an early age.