My morn, expectant bride with blush-ablaze,

appears a dainty girl; a powdered fey.

She’s blown from fairy dewdrops in a maze

that soars o’er singing flowers blissful play.

Our sparkling dawn sends light to kiss the face

of groom who grows beneath the shadows low

and blooms a brilliant hue; a purple trace

that ‘s lifted from the fog where now he glows.

The moon has danced away beyond the night

as early beams entrance the wedding guests.

They turn their heads to greet the waltzing light

that warms the periwinkle’s silken vest.

Triumphant march of morn has brought fine day;

a diadem of magic breaks our way.

Red Poppies

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Poets Pub

Rantings Of A Third Kind

The Blog about everything and nothing and it's all done in the best possible taste!

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