The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were

I feel an intense pleasure of awakening before the sun; of seeing a glimpse of his temperate light through the bare trees outside my window while clutching a mug of coffee in my already skin cracked hands; of standing for a mere minute in solitude before launching into the bustle of my morning routine while listening for tiny steps descending the stairs begging to be given attention; of crossing myself and whispering a prayer to commence my day; of experiencing the brisk air from a window I neglected to close the evening before despite the fact the heat has been switched on. Oh how I love summer, the consuming heat, the air drenched with humidity, the liberty to fling open doors and windows and rush outside, the arousing to action it kindles within me. Yet autumn with its unique beauty and its gentle movement from life to death woos me to journey inward, beckoning me to bury these temporal cares that often vex and seem insurmountable so that with God's grace they might die and something beautiful might rise out this wanting soul, desperate for more of Christ and less of me.

Forgive me if this poem has been offered here before; I have a tendency to forget and repeat. This poem just makes me happy. 

The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were

Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry's cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I'll put a trinket on.

Poetry Wednesday

Scenes from hiking with daddy at Scott County Park last Saturday after mommy whimpered out a plea for a couple hours to clean. She received several. Thanks honey!