The dawn seen through old memories and mist
Seeps down the mountain at the hint of the sun
And the day is brightened with light’s first kiss:
All while the land is painted with colors spun,
I watch pure white clouds form in the sky,
Listen to the warbling of small colorful birds
As they sit self-importantly in trees so high,
Trying to compose songs with tweeting words:
I silently pray that more days like this will come,
To this old man with wrinkles and aching frame,
Whose faded years, add up to quite a large sum,
And breath comes heavily with heart to blame:
Then as the sun moves high above land and sea,
I dream, of tomorrows, sitting under a tree.
For more on James G. Piatt, please see our Authors page.