Soft,
The whispered breath, an early morning breeze
Which sets in motion almost invisibly,
The gossamer cathedrals of arachnid toil.
Sweet,
The fragrance of freshly opened blossoms
Whose grace revealed by the mightiest hand,
Tosses perfume upon the gentle breath of wind.
Clear,
The rays of sunshine that reveal the diamonds
Which decorate the spider’s web in dewdrops,
Enticed by gravity to rest among withering leaves.
Pure,
The song of wrens who herald the sunrise
Their choral choruses echo warmly through rising mist,
Like lullabies putting night's ambiguity to sleep.
Peace,
The total portrait sculpted in the morning’s birth;
Its tranquillity, its expectation of dawn,
A stage set, a curtain rise, for the drama of day to unfold.
¤Aü§Póꆙ¤
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