The spokes of morning

The new day is the canvas stretched
not old dried painted chips
new sap that flows through branch and twig
cock crows, rouse sleepy hens

To raise the bugle to the lips
how welcome is the smell
as the bacon starts to crisp
summoning the nights farewell

Aromas, as the dawn lights the dewy sill
a background, that is just infill
the day is poised with crayon raised,
just outlines brushed in hues of haze

Old church bell chimes, the quarter past
the minute hand, the tillers spokes that spin
eye to mind, the will to make a start
to correlate the fusion of each whim

Download the dreamcatcher's web
as you laid and rested
tossed and turned, digested
hatched and fertilized the egg

The violins, to hear its single voice
and swaying pull the bow
 standing as soloist
the lone chorister on the breakfast show