Eternal Reverie

Morning stopped,
To listen to the mighty whisper
Of the heron's unfolding wings.
It stopped for the oaks,
Their arms outstretched
Against a rosy and roused canvas.

The sanguine sky with his timid demeanor sat,
Rubbing his slumber-glazed eyes.
And the morning stopped to admire him,
Rendering his cheeks an emblazoned red.
Morning stopped for the barefoot hills,
Scampering with pleasure towards the horizon.

It stopped for the callow ground,
Set like a dream amidst a lazy tier of fog,
And embellished with altogether flawless beads of dew.
Morning stopped to compose itself,
Beaming with the youthfulness of daylight.

It is a mystery.
Morning stopped,
But aroused an eternal reverie.