Dawn

French horns play their music, with light

trickling down over the hills and the silent forest to the new buds

of trees that will one day become great oaks.

The demons have danced on the soil there,

but they have grown to be ungrown,

in the mind of he who tarries there.

The mourning doves have awoken, their coo

greets the rising sun, so as to comfort the young man

who tarries there.

He knows the bud

of the great oak tree. They’ve known each other for quite some time,

since the young man’s world was new.

All must travel in the sylvan majesty,

all is metta in design,

all creation tarried there, once or another time.

The young man who tarries there, in the hands

of a shining sky, of colors that gods could not

describe.

“Tarry no more!” was the dawn’s decree,

to the man that stood upon the soil,

that he had stood upon for all his life.

Something new had stirred in him,

(he had heard the dawn for a time)

to tarry no longer in this place.

Joined with the dawn to the clearing there, just over there

where the roses and tulips grow,

he waved goodbye to the tiny oak bud, and thanked him for his company.

And the man who had tarried there,

smiled at the rising sun,

dawn had broken…

And he walked among the roses and tulips,

down the sun-drenched path, toward the newborn horizon.

It was a new day.