Morning in the South

I arose this morning –
the dawn silently tip toeing,
across the sleeping dark horizon.

Bare stark branches of trees,
gatekeepers of the coming day,
beseech the horns of Luna to stay.

Night has left behind diamonds
glittering, strung across the ground,
a gift for the coming spring.

Tendrils of fireplace smoke waft
with the musky clear, crisp air,
a ritual offering to the hearth.

Fluffy feathered birds chirp awake,
shaking the cold from drowsy beaks,
tenors tuning up for their work.

A distant hound speaks its mind,
announcing another glorious
morning in the American South.

This magical moment of wakening,
carries the heritage of time,
of past and present, of tomorrows.

It touches the soul, the heart,
with things that are gentle reminders
of what it means to be a Southerner.

 ©2015, Donald Harbour

Bonded before the hearth

There is nothing like a good fire in winter to bring folks together. That and a great glass of Pinot Noir .

The morning dawn is awake,
Peering with a blurry eye,
Shielded by a grey coverlet,
It’s orb dimly lights the sky,
Arising to meet the day beginning,
Creatures stir from stiff slumber,
Knowing they will be whittled down,
Slowly abraded by winter’s knife,
Frosty steel in a chilled bone haft,
The human beings move in a stoop,
Cold clutches their fragile forms,
Its icy burden a formidable weight,
Balanced on the precipice of life,
They huddle before blazing hearths,
Closer, absorbing each others warmth,
It is not enough to survive,
Together for eons they bonded,
In a dank litter strewn cave,
A fragrant hut of fir boughs and bark,
Skin wrapped teepee on the plains,
Not for love or family or tribe,
It is that spark that all seek out,
No matter what species of life,
In time of hardship and misery,
Before the magical mystery of fire,
The comfort of sharing another’s touch.

©2012, Donald Harbour