The Springtime of Morning

The morning calls, it beckons me to become part of the wakening
To create, to bring forth newness in thought and in action
But somehow through the day, as in the aging of a year
I flatten out, becoming a long, hot lazy summer day
With evening fall, I revive somewhat
Perhaps even taking a short stroll
Until, with the final night fall
I am overtaken by a dead whiteness as if it were winter
There is no creativity left, no life, no thought, no hope
I yearn for nothing more than one more nights hibernation

Where is that continual springtime of days
When energy peaks, taking my creativity with it?
There are volumes of books I would write, in those early morning hours
Hours always filled with birth and creativity
If only they would stay.