Poem: The Color of Morning.

The Color of Morning

Another morning.
Another journey into fog.

It has become familiar to me,
landmarks emerging, fading,
a reminder that I am a poor prophet,
that whether I wail or rail,
only the few hear.

No matter, I am content
to sing in the fog,
a muted trumpet.
Beal Street Blues,
the color of morning.

About this morning.

Moving slow on a rainy foggy morning here in Vermont. I have been told that we have more “grey days” here in Vermont than anywhere in the Continental U.S., And here I thought is was just me.

Tom

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s