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Early Springs Morn.

Oh, how glorious to wake to an early Spring morn. A time when sleep is banished by the rising of a thumbnail of sun slicing through the outer crust of the earth, that we may see a presence by its further opening of the wound to view her golden existence heralding the birth of a new day.
It's golden light races across the fields of golden corn and the yellow of rape, and puts a smile on the dark faces of the Sunflower which have stood as sentinels throughout the night; now watching the returning bats their cry's silent in unheard lay.
Clear is the sky of any cloud but for a few streaks; marking where the brush of natures artist had not completely cleansed their brushes in the damp mists, which still lie between the clefts of distant hills.
Perhaps they will lie their soft and pliable ready to paint the sunset of a new night of starlit glory that there be a melding for the earth is awakening to whatever the God's have in store for it.
While we custodians; whom the Powers have placed upon their creation tend to its needs/ also our own, to dig and sow and reap the rewards and to report to them an accomplished and acceptable story.
Few poets there are who can create in words the purity of the beginnings and endings of any new day however gifted they may be. The rising of Sol brings forth a soft breeze to send the last of the ominous night's clouds tilting over the far horizon, upending them to become the first to darken a new night sky and the stars to bestow upon it their twinkling glory.

And Helios drove his chariot across the lofty hight's and smiled as he imparted to all his glory.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
Well like all of my poetry I can but try.
Editing stage: 


and you obviously are a trained writer. Each of us must decide for themselves what poetry is and what distinguishes it from prose. I guess this subject is about 150 years old or so, starting with Baudelaire, Rimbaud...
I consider this quite excellent prose and not poetry for more reasons than I can count. Within any sort of tradition of poetry, including that poems are oral statements, how do you justify this as being "poetry"? To me this is an important question because if everything written is called poetry, then it's all fake news, there is no such thing as poetry, as poetry becomes anything written that calls itself a poem.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

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