Morning at Callaway

The morning settles lightly on my shoulders,
As sheerest silk, it drapes across my neck:
A trail of matted leaves that faintest molders
Amid the sweet’ning flowers past the deck

The breeze, with its caresses, wants to cheer me,
The sun is holding back, with shy regard –
And though you’re far away, I feel you near me,
Across these woods, through time and your back yard

The only sounds of birds (and they’re disjointed)
My breathing louder as I take the hills;
In solitude and wonder I’m anointed
As every pore of me with morning fills

I know that Spring’s illusion has to fade
For permanence, in this life, we’re not made

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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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