Votive Mournings

The melancholy comes most in the morning. The sleeping dog lies by the bed Upon the lowly floor Menaced by nothing in particular. The vague fear, rising slow like the sun, Of something lacking. A self, suffering soulless. A tree with no song birds Standing lonely in the meadow, Long limbs reaching for a friend, A lover. Living is the real story Behind the life visible, Always acting upon its own stage. The mornings are only ordinary Except for twice, the rising Of sun and melancholy. One a rhapsody, one routine. Who can decipher the difference? A mysterious movement balanced by Incalculable indifference. - On the lowly floor the dog ponders The answer in a dream, As it rises with the sun Above the normal ness of earth below. The true song of soul Hangs in the balance of love Found in a dogs dream, And in longing like trees reaching For the warmth of a new days brilliant brightness, Shinning hope Into lonely hearts.