Morning road, autumnal vines and that postcard from Provence
The morning had that sweetness of mellowed light
And breeze cool slowly flowing across the golden fields of ripened corns,
Much like that favoured postcard from Provence
It had all the colors of the wild
And shades interfusing lighted space,
The morning had memories of losing oneself to the beauty of life
As captured by the pristine country road,
Not faraway a loco perhaps chugged
Making whistle which only accentuated the lust of wandering in mortal souls,
Like a postcard from Provence
Blissful, serene , restive,
The morning how brought one
More close to colors, lores and free spirit of a day, blithe and Pure.
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