The morning wakes a sleeping tree,
The golden light won’t let it be,
Tickling the treetops, down drips the dew,
Waking the trees from their bed of mountain blue.
The child’s moon wafts over cotton candy skies,
Tinted with tears of a thousand goodbyes,
But tonight we’ll be glad, for the moon has nowhere to go,
He’ll drift through the pleasant sky, taking it slow.
Forgivness must be begged for inactivity for an entire week, so forthwith, forgiveness I beg.