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Morning is the Mistress of the Moon

Posted to Poetry

Morning is the Mistress of the Moon

Morning is the mistress of the Moon –
a maiden painting daylight dawn to swoon
her decorations on the mountain peaks.
She plays with sun rays on a watercolor brush
with a whoosh and a blend
accompanied by choral bird songs
which suspend the world to discover
new minutes.

Sweet sweet sweet –
Morning comes with each repeat
of an axis turn. She spins Time
like a top and when she comes,
she comes clean enough to stop
the dark, stark and graceful
as the spread of swan wings,
as perfect as a spoken word,
elegantly posed for flight.

Morning is the rising bird
who kisses night goodnight.

And when Morning quick emerges
with the urge to test reliances of Time,
she assures the hour's complience
to invest in one more day
and cracks the sky wide open
the way a mime can crack a smile.
Morning is an old fashioned modern chick.
She is slick and quick to flirt with lunar tease.
And when she enters the air
with her easy going flair,
she brings the Moon
down to his knees.

She is the sleek dressed mist tones
loaning fresh scents delicate enough
to rebuff her charmer's fleeing.
With her repeating, she ceases
black night cries and angel's remorse.
Morning forces the turn of earth in cyclic rotation.
She guarantees perpetual breath.
She is the worthy invitation.

"Come dance with me," she taunts the Moon,
"Come dance another dance, and soon
we both can rise again to meet the sky!
Come dance with me," she chants,
"And we can love each other as we dance!
Come dance! Please don't be shy!

Morning slips in by
a concealed veil.
She is the frail
first light, the daring genius
who discovers the rewinding of Time.
She holds it secure, without fail,
leaving Venus far behind in the eastern sky.
Morning rises like a lover's hips,
her lips pursed with a courtesan's kiss,

"Dear Moon, I dream in daydream whispers
of your sighs," she sings.
"Come follow me to wishes. I will bring you hope.
I am Morning. I can see the endless possibilities
in the scope of rhythm in your shine.
Come dance once more with me today
and I will sway you to the comfort
of my peace and then you will be mine."

The Moon is Morning's paramour.
He is her satellite warning yearnings,
taunts of wants, mysteries, pleas.
She is his debutante, his fawn,
his daybreak aurora donned by veils.
The Moon succumbs
to Morning's breeze consistently.
She never fails.

Morning has something to offer.
narrower than any tight hour.
She fits prize and dare
into the half-light grey
of drowse and aware.
Morning shares herself on the spin of an axis,
tempting the Moon's persistence,
his astonished lust,
convinced by his very existence to trust
with no resistence, as she must.

Morning is the Moon's echo of before.
She is the assurer of his aftermath.
She brings tears, laughter, elation
and a warm bath of dedication.
Morning is the worthy invitation.

The Moon calls Morning his Lure,

"I adore the Morn', he says,
"for her brilliance, her form, her reverence,
for her stature, her vast perfect newness,
so sure of the the rapture of her view!
She creates my brilliance,
reflecting on me, anew!
Without the Morning, I would not be.
Morning is my rhapsody!
I welcome her sunup
with a cup filled with shine!
I drink in her reflection, I dine
on her filling. Morning is my willing

I give her evening angles of heaven shade
as she trades me death for new full hope
extending a woven rope for me to climb,
like a vine to reach tonight.
With her light,
she allows me to vow
to rise once more
when she lies down."

And Morning answers,

"You are my Moon, my satellite.
My night, my shawl! You give me the light and all
I need to return tomorrow! And when I fall,
you carry me from my dawn to your shade.
You are staid and true,
I am Morning because of you."