AnotherMorningPoem

The sun hits

The tree tops

Like foamy crests

On ocean waves

All white and

Rolling as the

Sun moves higher

Into the sky

Tree trunks lean

Like firewood against

Each other and

Oh the smell

Of earth bathes

My nostrils there

A damp coolness

Like a refrigerator

Door opening in

July on the

Forest floor as

Dew streaks all

The car windows