Morning

Morning

This morning I saw you walking among the trees
out beyond our fence line.
The sky was gray, the sunlight slanted,
and the grass was tall and brown.

Your skirt moved in playful rhythm
with the silent fluttering of the falling leaves,
and the mist seemed to clip at your heels;
the same mist that now settles around my cup,
that dances with my breath,
that briefly masks my reflection in the window.

You wore a mother’s smile,
as the leaves came to rest in your arms.
And stepping out into the open field
you took each one as your own,
clutching them to your chest,
igniting their hues in the morning sun.

-Adam Zodrow

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