A Series of Vers Libre

Of the Sweet Spring Morn (Part III of Dissipations)

I remember swinging on the brown, chestnut-wood steps of swings
In the foggy spring morning, so early, against the lucid body of dawn
And how the sun kept trying to break its way through the
Clouds; so thick, so blanketing, as if protecting it from something
And the birds, oh the birds, singing their dulcet lullabies into thin air,
Elf-like melodies, but your words were eminently sweeter than even the birds.