A Lost Morning
Tori L. Wilfred
The moon finishes her lavendering
caressing the lonely marsh,
a frosty mirror of the encircling fragile
skeletons of lanky grass
dead, opaque,
foreshadowing a throbbing past-
a verdant and animated vitality
the replenishing veiled,
the silence, as unadorned
as the watchful railroad tracks
long unremembered,
utter and wise comprehend the expanse.
Then, a parting of the wavering fog,
a splurge of shrewd color on
Nature’s sepian photograph,
A lone mallard conceding splendor
to the dull reflection
with ever-expanding circles of rhythm
rekindling vernal energy.
