Morning's Mural

The rain, it paints the sky in shades of gray,
as I sit to watch it drip from the drenched and aching
day. I notice the fallen leaves, as they sit beneath the dew
and lonesome lay. Above, I see the morning mist, as young
and as ancient as Spring, as it from the distant hills makes
way. Into my room, candle lit, my safe and glowing womb,
the dampened fair aroma of rain and midnight slain arrives
in a soft and sweet array. The morning, it paints in broadest
strokes, soaked in rain to the fallen leaves dismay. My eyes
trace the horizon, far and faint, while on the window's other
side the tears dancing, prancing play.
O morning filled with song,
scents and sense's other on display,
promise you will return,
promise me your song
will never fade away.