by Thomas Davis
We sing alive the mornings of our days.
We struggle through the storms we face
And glory in the filigree of ways
That dance into the vivid, dark blue blaze
Of chicory inside a field and grace
The moments when we’ve shrugged away malaise
And float upon a river’s passageways
Into the shine of sandbars at a place
Fresh water flows into an ocean’s bays.
There’s nothing new beneath the sun. The haze
Of old age seeps into our thoughts, the pace
Of who we are weighed down by yesterdays;
Yet, as we feel our aching bones, we gaze
Into the morning light and interlace
Into the sky’s celestial cabarets.
I sing this morning of my life and praise
The days I’ve had, the loves I’ve had, the chase
Across a lifetime through the ricochets,
The symphony that’s sung alive my days.