Morning Tumbles In

Morning flexes limbs of amber light
and somersaults along the mountain slope.
The shadows catch her pearly glow; they bounce
it off the river's gleam, through drowsy trees,
and down our rows of softly curtained dreams.

She prods the slow, departing girth of night;
unrolls a carpet, fresh and clean, and waits
for footprints that will leave their mark upon
the day. She sends a signal flare across
the sky...and hope arrives, to guide our way.

Poet of the Sky

Within a flow of amber ink,
the Sun takes measure of the day
just passed; she fills the open sky
with colors of her twilight verse.
Embedded in her dusky lines
are thoughts that rose to whirlwind heights,
with yours and mine and everyone's
portrayed in shades of vibrancy.

Expressions of our fears and doubts
have wafted up; she captures them,
reveals an insight far beyond
our comprehension. Soothed by rhyme,
our pain of personal defeat
becomes a softly muted glow
of indigo. She adds our cheers
of celebration -- streaks of red
are interspersed with fluid gold.

She writes with flawless style and grace;
our moments soar on sonnet trails
and join the rhythm of the stars.
Her journal done, she heaves a sigh.
Tomorrow is another page.

I think God sings!

The rustles in the forest blend
their undertones of harmony.
The ocean's pounding rhythms spill
a rich cascading symphony.

The raindrops bounce in clear refrains
that gurgle through a pebbled ditch.
An orchestrated anthem swells,
attuned in perfect cosmic pitch.

The chords of life are keyed to change
as seasons pluck melodic strings.
Within each quaver, trill and note
a power hums -- I think God sings!

The Voice

Do you hear it?

...tangled in a willow's pleats,
or bouncing down a pebbled slope.
It rises on a stretch of wing
to take its place within the flow
that glides along the cosmic throat.

It speaks of unity -- a sense
of oneness with the universe,
how every level intertwines.

We tend to let our words become
embossed in legends of our own
design. And yet the winds that bend
creation hear no sound from us.
Perhaps we'll learn we're meant to listen....

not to speak.


A willow's fluted ribbons skirt the creek
while swallows streak on lucent, seamless trails.
Through tangle-rooted tunnels foxes seek
their prey where stark survival law prevails.

The glow of twilight regally descends
on pale chromatic stairs - each leaf entwines
its aura, breathing in the amber blends.
With calibrated strokes the night aligns

new etchings on the mountain, dusts the trees
with porous shade. A cricket choir embeds
the hollows with nocturnal harmonies
and stars bequeath their pulsing, silver threads.

Then time itself withdraws, in pensive thought,
to ponder all the wonders God has wrought.

© Laryalee Fraser

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