Misty gray, hanging low,
Moving steady, marking time,
Marching soldier in your prime.
Crispness chilling morning air,
Sitting on my front porch chair
I ponder what the day will bring.
Daintily the wind chimes sing
As robins chirp
And folks walk by,
Gentle breezes seem to sigh
And slide across the pine tree’s boughs,
Who protests slightly, but allows.
Plans were made
But will they serve?
Will protests yield what they deserve?
Or should I simply roll along
To see what fate holds in her song?
Some days are like this one,
I’ll wait to see what it’s about.
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