Categories
Poetry

The Gift

What comes each dawn                                      
I do not know

Dawn knows no reason                              
Keeps its own season

Buds at budding time                                
Ripens at harvest time

Dies in its prime                                        
Leaves one fresh gift

To confound the clever painter            
Blending at their palette.

By markthegrey

I am a biologist, author, poet, professor, and parent. I nest in Aurora, IL with my spouse and about two to four kids.

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