The gray sky matches my ungrateful mood,
Just below the cloud line,
Is a sun laced fog of yellow sky,
A scant glimpse of hope for the day.
What kind of day is it going to be?
Should I crumple my face into a shrug?
And what’s with the damn bird
That wakes me up every morning?
Kidding me? Whispers of rescuing me,
Come out of the lilies and hydrangea,
Leaves rise like revival meeting penitents,
Why should they care?
Like always, I will go to church,
Say a prayer of thanks,
To find courage to face the day,
Like that importunate bird!
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 