Morning Light

I, too, have loved the morning light.
It claimed me as a child.
Fine light, tentative and shy,
it glints across the creek,
reaches for the bright leaves,
frail now, fewer, defences coming down.

Rome, Lolin Menendez rscj

Respectfully, it touches them.
It probes the mist that rises
in the stillness
insistent, seeking,
finding, giving.

Like him-the one
who lights and moves into
my soul.