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The Rising Sun
Savannah Shrader
The morning sun shone,
While the mountain peaks roamed,
Higher and higher,
Until the sun became like fire.
The trees began to droop,
As the sun began to stoop,
To examine the world beneath.
The sun began to retreat,
Once it had accomplished its feat.
And, the trees popped back to life,
Happy they were able to make it through the strife.
For the sun had shone its best,
And they were ready for rest.
I love writing and am currently working on a Bachelors in Profes-
sional Writing with a Minor in Management. I also enjoy
photography.
a poem is. it lives, it breathes, it sings, it cries.
sometimes, it is a whimper in plastic crayons…
a herald to incomprehension at the bottom of the sea…
a dirge of dangerous doughy doubts.
who can live without, within, around, outside t
he parameters of words, thoughts, concepts, dreams,
like bologna, all beef, beefy, muscular,
dainty petit four of hankering and sorrow.
A Poem Is
Debi Swim
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