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.