The Morning Rain Has Yet To Descend Poem by Samuel Richard Leonard

Amid night's leftover blues a gold seeps in, slow.
The buzzing lights in the park have ceased to glow,
And it seems this early robin is the first to know.
I watch her flutter in the green just over there,
Alighting to hop, and peck, and worriedly stare,
As I sit immersed in redolence thick upon the air.
Where is your worm, winged mother? Or the butterfly's cocoon?
In what hole lies the hare? What sapling aspires to loom?
What happens to a worm chosen by the robin?
I know these things, I think, but only deep within;
Why can I not see them at the place where they begin?
- Samuel Richard Leonard