Morning sun shines eternal love
Sweeping the shadows of your room;
Whether silk or stone, desert or grove,
Beneath blankets sing old heart tunes.
Gentle thoughts hide shy under life’s pressure steaming,
Springtime forces brave life following sleet and snow
As broken feelings pass and take horrors for a cleaning
In moments of silence, sleeping doves wake the crow.
Winds of autumn fall cold on hot bones needing rest
While summer builds birdhouses made of toothpicks,
Each change putting stability to the test
Indifferent to future stones and sticks.
Focus on slow breaths and pushing rusty swings,
Focus on different sounds between old and new strings.
THE FILTERED PRESS 
It’s alright but I don’t spot any meter. The sonnet of all poetry forms relies heavily upon it. This poem could really benefit if set to iambic pentameter.