This poem is called Morning, which I liken to Spring. If you take the stages of a day, then morning would be spring in my calendar of thinking. This poem was written by my mom many years ago, I’m not sure how many, but at least 30.

MORNING

It cometh not with observation,
It cometh from afar,
Like bells within a silence
To the void where you are.

The earth has turned to catch the sun,
And tiny you and I
Respond to God’s arithmetic
With a giant sigh.

It is slow addition
From waste to arctic waste,
Vast oceans etch a silver trail
O’er hidden icebergs, chaste.

It laps the shores around the world,
It falls on flower and stone.
It creeps up steps and windows
Invading cot and throne.

From continent to continent
It picks its singing way.
Regardlessly it multiplies
‘Til stars break into day.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )