Those Mornings

I miss the days
when morning tide would greet me
with soft repose

Oh, how she use to smooth
my wrinkled posture
with such stilly hands
only a soft heart could lend

but now those palms bear claws
much like time wears a thorn
all bare and prickly
about it's arm,
to touch it
is embracing
the exquisite sting
of another moment,
that will eventually discolor

just like morning tides
pastel hues