Early Autumn Morning

 

 The whisper floats through time,

catch it, hold it, hear it, let it go.

It tells of temporary sparkles and gauzy air.

Birdsong with a percussion of

falling acorns and crackling leaves,

relish the music before it's gone.

A single dew drop, yet to be burnt away

clinging to a blade of grass,

light twinkles through it, prism-like.

The fog is a translucent veil,

 making the distance obscure;

before the sun returns 

these earthly clouds to their height,

the world feels smaller, safer.

A little refuge of known

in a world of uncertainties.

It feels better when hidden 

by chilled mists.

I wish to wrap myself in 

early morning fog,

shape it as a dress,

studded with dew

and the sound of a creek.

I would dance in that dress

to this music, while it lasts.

The song will never be quite the same

like these clouds that I wear.

Forever shifting with time,

but always beautiful.

A little green insect blown 

into my hand,

shedding it's exoskeleton

in place of  fresh one, like me.

A minuscule wing

with a lilac sheen,

floats to my finger.

The world is giving today.