Morning by L. M. Montes

Mist arises from a grave unknown here,
tickling my mind so curiously,
then winds of thought spread far yet hovers near,
covering beauteous scents tapping me.
The sun lifts high and pulls the mist away,
and now grass sparkles on the brink of day,
flowers spotted diamonds of morn’s soft dew
are natures way of mixing its perfume.
A tiny cold nips at the finger tips,
while the sun prickles with warming tickles,
and the ocean of skies set forth the dyes
of bluish color hues as if on cue.
But alas a cloud of gray comes rushing
with storm winds pelting and rains a gushing.