The sun rises from her eastern lair,

She sounds like the hooting morning dove.

The fresh smells that are everywhere

Glow the reds and pinks that shine from above.

The new dew on feet so bare

Smells clean and damp, two scents in love.

A brook splashing down a rock stair,

The soft wind is what it feels of.

 

The sun climbs her tower,

Sounding like deer running free.

The smell of a blooming flower

Puts the green in the tree.

The skin under the sun’s heating power

Bears the scent of a worm pine’s glee.

Both rustling rodents running from hawk’s glower

And the touch of a bush seem leafy.

 

As she retires to the west,

The sun sings like the humming frog.

A musty rot too familiar to detest

Beams like purple rays in the fog.

The cool but humid breeze guessed

The playful smell of the friendly bog.

The buzzing of bugs waking from rest

Recalls the feeling of fur on a dog.

 

The stars that replace the brighter gold

Join the crickets in their choir.

The scentless air so blankly bold

Is like the dark unlit by fire.

The slow cold air forgets to hold

The smells that dance when heat is higher.

The stern old owl’s hooting scold

Feels like the blowing of poem’s last respire.