I was offline all evening yesterday due to a power outage. Perhaps I needed something to make me wait to write the Sun poem until the sun was rising to birdsong.

Here’s a little catch-up:

Sun
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

Of course they call it up,
each morning, their voices
rising, each one adding a new note,
first titmouse, peter-peter,
then the pret-ty pret-ty cardinal,
someone singing SWEET-sweet,
and then, slightly off-key,
but eager to be part of the show,
Sweet George Peabody the white-throat
says his lonely name.

TODAY’S PROMPT:
Today, the Fool considers her Guardians. Who are her protectors? Who cares for her in unseen ways, offers advice and aid when necessary?