Sing of the Morning… by Toni L.A. Cross

 

toes dressed in diamonds

in sparkling dew

that tread on a carpet

of plush emerald hue

dance to music

to the finest of strings

wee crickets make music

so you can spin

whirl with abandon

before the eyes of the dawn

coy veil unfurling

of fine glossy locks

O sing to the morning!

O sing of the day!

rejoice without censure

let this moment stay

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Waking from a dream…

 

It is morning, a strange morning, at that.

Somehow, nothing traditionally considered breakfast appeals to me. I reach into the fridge and pull out a snack pack from the bottom shelf. I plop myself down on the couch and absent-mindedly begin to eat. The comforting taste of chocolate pudding coats my tongue and I sigh, remembering. Memories of a big green bowl, dotted with the cool sweat of condensation on the outside and filled inside with a pristine lake of chocolaty goodness. For a second I am nine again, a big metal spoon in hand. I can feel the smooth texture and the sense of pride at making my first batch from scratch.

 

Then, the dreams I awoke from an hour ago begin to haunt me once more. When my eyes fluttered open, they were salty and stinging with tears that hadn’t quite been cried. My mind ponders the alien grief that made its way into reality. I have no reason to be sad, but somehow this melancholy lingers.

 

I scrape the last bit of pudding from the recesses of the plastic cup and I begin to type…


moon~dawn~wind, by Toni L.A. Cross

moon
blushing her adieu and
fading with girlish demure

dawn
lifting her hooded eyes
above the rolling green

wind
the breath of a new day
sighing across the meadow

This Day: A Villanelle, By Toni L.A. Cross

Like honey on the tip of my tongue

Golden sunrise melting slowly

This day so wobbly legged young

Clouds floating where they are flung

Made of dripping newness wholly

Like honey on the tip of my tongue

Bashful daisies to fog have clung

Even pink worms don’t seem lowly

This day so wobbly legged young

Breathing heady baby breath into it’s lung

Wild fragrance of clover and moly

Like honey on the tip of my tongue

The free bird’s song must be sung

Any disruption would strike hard and unholy

This day so wobbly legged young

Even cobwebby star strands fadingly strung

Oh that this dawn could forever be-

This day so wobbly legged young

morn rising… Toni L.A. Cross

this day
   is rising
      dressed
           in the filmy
                           gauzy
                                     misty
                                             garments of dawn
    rubbing
         cobwebs
              from
                  her eyes
 
and
     shaking off
          the dew of slumber
              sticking
                    a dainty toe
                         onto a rug
                              of sparkling
                                               grass