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Rose Of A Morning              

Of a morní you arrive without a care                 
Softly scenting the breath in the air.                
Petals of sweetness fresh and so pure                  
Heat of high noon you would endure.                 

Leaves glisten in the falling of the rain              
An afternoon shower revives you again.              
Dusk closes in and you look so forlorn                
Just as the one who is pricked by your thorn.         

In the gentle darkness of an early morning dew       
Alongside you the buds are blossoming too.            
As the passing scent of you is released                
A new bouquet rises with the sun in the east.         

© 2001 Ruth Norman                                             

           

                   

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