Perfectly Elysian *

Sometimes the morning becomes
Elysian so that one just opens  one's window,
And the sweep of cool air gushes in from outdoor
Carrying the smell of flowers blooming
And leaves orange and red, so turning,

Perhaps somewhere in Aspen, the fall,
One thinks, has thought of beginning its season, a rejuvenating call,
Binding life with painted landscape and rhythm,

Trees there as appear turned like elves ,
In pied beauty so wonderous, draped,
And songs of the country lad, floating in,
Some mornings becomes an elysian scene,
Filled with all the colors one wishes to see
And by them made happy, full of simple glee,
Perhaps nearby one then hears the song of a stream
Flowing by in its own sweet will, so lighted by beam
Of the sun's blessed waking, so full of longing, 
That there one thinks of breaking impromptu into a song, belonging
To the Bower of blessedness that
Elysian a morning can give a rise,
To a Prayer perhaps,  so made,  for life.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached by Jonathan Harris.)