TWIST IN A MORN

I feel the earnestness rushing in Connor’s flute
Like an ethereal lyre that
Travels an idyllic quatrain;
Grateful morning and sips of worried sun
Chortling along oblivious mind.
With quick tickles in carnal madness
Austere trees knelt on blues while the soft wind
Spreads its lure to kissing dust. The blessed tune
Desires in twigs of tolerance:
“ Do I dare to stay”
Till the eerie dusk awaits lunar calmness.