For forty years, I have preferred to sleep late
Now
Mornings are always pastel colored
Sprayed by fluffy mists
Flitting through the age-grayed trees ahead of me
The sugar perfume of the orange blossoms
Hits me like running into a scented featherbed
The hanging moss silently sings
To the birds who are busy being happy
I am so content to be running
Running is poetry in motion
Poetry is the photograph of the mind
If I didn't get my daily running in, I'd serve time.
© Copyright joan joesting 1978
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