Calling

In the stillness of the dawn
before the rose swept mountaintops
discard their cotton blankets;

before the sun stretches up,

it’s reflection glimmering
across the stained glass seas of the waking city. 

When the quiet whispers of sleeping houses
fill with the rustling of fluttering eyes
and covered yawns.

Across the tips of dew covered grass,
in the corner where fences meet 
and leaves pile,

hope grows.

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