|January 18th, 1998|
Upon the MornBy David Salamone Upon the morn in moonlit darkness still,
Into nature's arms I travel to you,
Beneath glistening morning stars.
All my senses capturing your fragrances,
From grass and trees and air,
And beneath feeling damp of ground,
So, too, chill which hovers there.
Stream of final destination,
Shrouded with mist of evening's arms,
In a blanket over hill and valley,
Where all I love is born.
Smell of ground beneath my soul,
Ingested slowly into heart,
For you are nothing truly captured,
By writing or by art.
Come to me in all your splendor, As I prepare rod and fly. Your coolness beginning to embrace me, Still wet from evening's shroud. Now steady you do hold me, In your grasp as have before me others felt, Who have all but passed at twilight And have fished your waters last.
Out over your flowing surface,
Line becoming the wings of spirits past, Cutting through your silent mist,
Gently reaching across your flowing breast, In but a motion meant to kiss. All senses filled with your offerings, I have reached for those from long ago, And found their souls yet last, As fly gently caresses your surface, Upon the morn. ~ Dave P. Salamone
River Bed by Dave Motes
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