I thought I heard the wood thrush
calling from the trees,
as the dawn rose slowly
pulling sleep so I could see.
The red beauty has not yet appeared,
so spread my wings, I must
and fly above the sea
and green earthly lands
to find the right concoction
to free my weary woes
becoming, once again,
enchanted by the lily,
and the primrose.
Yet ruminations flash faces
struggling to endure...
releasing deep, gentle sighs.
And in the distance
the thrush persists
still singing its tranquil call
for the day is young
and a million, hopeful moments
yet to come.
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