Seasoned Promises

Stumbling heavy lidded t'ward a papier-mache morn;
spring, unsprung and bleached to shades of grey.
The dogs approach the threshold, as if a precipice;
they share my reticence to meet the day.

Nature has no nature for the seasoned promises
that it kept faith with once, when I was young.
Now I doubt the rectitude of memories, long past,
when morning chorus' remain unsung.