Sunday, April 21, 2013

Sunday Poem

Sunday Morning Sunrise

Slowly the sun chases away the moon.
It is a sliver on the horizon like a loon 
With its wings extended, floating
On the edge of the lake beneath its wings.

It's Sunday morning as I run past 
The harbor.  Ghosts of the last
Season of sailing are the only thing 
That I see as I scan the lake's placid covering.

As I continue my run up the hill
Away from the lake I know I will
Remember the scene, the ghosts of past
Seasons of sailing, as the Winter breathes its last.

From "The Kingdom of Music" James Henderson, 2013

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