On Wasted Mornings

the trees are waiting
and the paths are smooth
the flowers start
to bloom
and the sun peeps
with gladness
between the mountains
the ants are busy
and the grasshoppers
sing
the rivers flow
happily to the sea

and here i am
on this wasted morning
composing verses
that no one
reads.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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