What Cometh Upon Morning

Truth, Ink Skips

The day,
now, arrives
Abstract as
splotches
dripped from
A hard-shaken
brush;
What fading
becomes, of us,
When we
hardly stay
in touch?
We wake,
lightning stroke,
Days so many
thoughts
provoke;
We used to
get up early
so we could ski
on the lake
before other
campers got
in the water.
Often fog
would lie
in stillness
until we
cleaved it,
Fog on lake,
like smoke.
Those great
heavy stones,
So originally
placed;
Existence
has weight.
Consciousness
becoming
clear in
daybreak’s
glamorous
glare.
Creativity
anchored
within
Love so
deep,
Summer
songs repeat.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
Monday, September 29, 2025

Prompt: Can you synthesize memory and philosophy in a burst of Creativity? Try!