Dawn's Chorus

With her canvas, brush and tubes of paint,
and keen eye for detail,
She crowned the hilltop where she sat,
commanding all the dale.
A nocturne joy of sleeping verve,
the antithesis of day,
The night mist kissed her
like a sister,
seated in the lea.
As night waned and it closed its eyes
to sleep while others stirred,
Dawn's chorus
plucked the forest
from its sleep,
the sound of birds.
The pale pink glow
of mornings rise
dispelled the myth of night,
The darkest hour of earthly time
relinquished all to light.
Artistic fervor swelled her mind
and furrowed her white brow,
"I have to capture what I see but I can't figure how!"
The stream below,
with brilliant glow,
as the sun strikes it with light,
Is far to glorious for real
I would only make it trite.
And how the wind sets leaves to dance
upon the forest trees,
Like confidence,
with subtle hints,
invisible to me.
The tall grass sways so gently
and its sound can't be described,
Like soothing whispers in a dream
any try would be a jibe.
These paints are just not frank enough
to show the world in truth,
My hand is not adept enough
to capture springtime's youth.
So I will be the canvas,
let my eyes paint with their sight,
To lay down every memory
of this morning and last night.

-by WonkyDonkey