Mourning of the Morning
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Poem
There were blues in the hues of the morning,
mourning the end of night.
There, too, were warm rays of sunshine
upon the heads of early doves.
Words were absent from the melody of the morning;
a quieting rest obeying some unspoken law of man,
like the ritual silence between shuddering breaths
of a woman paying respects
to the one living only in beveled stone font,
below leveled green, unseen,
like the quiet blue mourning of the morning.
more by A. M. LAINE
photograph by Julian Bialowas
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