Sky Blooms

By Amos Russel Wells

From the lips of Morning,
Where the blossoms lie,
Petulantly scorning,
Breathed a little sigh;

“Sunrise flowers wither,
Quickly turn to gray;
Whither fly they? Whither
Pass from light away?”

From the sunset splendor,
Glowing soft and clear,
Came a whisper tender:
“Morning, we are here!”

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