In the dimly lit still of the morning

In the dimly lit still of the morning
it is cool and wet.
Perhaps it is the fog or rain,
or just the dew-soaked grass
calling my name.
The morning has started for some,
but not for Nature,
for Her song birds have not begun their song.
The earth is beginning to yawn
and stretch out her arms to
embrace the morn.
I do not speak
in this inane
stillness.
I barely breathe
for I can begin to faintly hear Her song
calling to me, I still love you, Boy.
I still think of you often.

Soon, the morning will pass,
the breeze will slow,
just grazing the winter's twigs.
The dew will dry, and
noise will begin to fill the sky,
polluting the air; no beginning or ending.
Day will mature into night.
The air will begin to clean,
ridding itself of the dirt.
The cool breezes begin
as we all slumber.

In the dimly lit still of the morning
it is cool and wet.