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.


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