Morning Mist Poem by Robert Sheridan

Its rudder runs through the morning grass
In its wake, the dew a sea of tranquility;
Its early gray aura taps at window panes
As to Morse code a waking message;
It challenges the walking sun with playful scorn
Softly, all living creatures come to life;
The hues on nature’s landscape unfold
Brush-stroked by a master’s hand;
Nightlights are extinguished one-by-one
As the sun attempts to peer through the glass;
It creates hidden shadows for the nocturnal
To the meek-eyed, a bargaining plea;
Advancing, it covers the streams and the lakes
As to see its own-misted reflection;
Its content to be obscurely good
As it lofts upon the mountains;
The morning breeze blows a gentle wind as to challenge
Its soft touch dissipates the mourning mist – their differences reconciled.