Loving you in the morning

I knew that I had the din of the enigmatic violin. And I thought I had the motley grime of realism within. But as I had counted the flying notes with no signs, there's a tune that never went out. Picking daisies and singing sad songs, all I dreamt was the rising, celibate dawn. Chiseled hope in the kernel of the subaltern mornings, I sat down by a store tempted thought in the river enamored of the chemistry of our biting souls swimming through the deadpan water. I waited until a sundew dropped from a callow leaf down to my pulpy iris seeping through the one-two-three promise to the sun. So when the summer four become a winter one? Its when the the zephyr muttered; Loving you in the morning was sunshine in the spring, the rites of discifalls.