The Dawn Of A Poet

The rising would come up now any moment with soothing, soft feet.

The poet sat watching the expanse; waiting for some inspiration staring,

At the fresh, crisp papers waiting to be inked happily.

The porch is still not lighted bright with sun shine,

Pink hues are painting the horizon vibrant

Making the dawn sky transcendental.

For the poet watching the sky with surprised vision,

Of appreciation, soaking the symphony of nature’s Orchestra.

The poet is lost in its glory, taking in every sound as if melody,

The rustling of numerous leaves giving back ground music to serenading musicians,

Readying themselves for the morning chores.

The rolling hills came to life slowly,

Flocks of little sparrows taking a dainty flight.

The murder of crows dispersed in all and sundry directions,

Choosing a fantastic perch flew in a silent eagle.

Keeping a watch over her naughty brood went flying a wood pecker shrewd.

The rippling pond nearby was shining

like a studded diamond,

With ruby red lotuses blossoming lazily at the periphery.

The old poets dawn was busily turning into a hub of activity.

He retired to his table but not for strong filter coffee.

Today the fresh white papers were handled after an year,

They were inked beautifully soothing the heart of the mourner.

The dawn had created space thawing the weeping heart,

With gentle colors and appeasing sounds.