In gray, cold morning
eyes that would rather sleep
overtake them a little longer,
I awake to sounds of water
and muted voices from
the other side of the door.
For though in all romance,
in the turning of the globe,
I would have each morning
more glorious still,
but in slow consciousness
I become aware of cold cold colors,
of the trees wherein soon no brilliant hue
will be found, save in
those relentlessly celebrating trees,
giving hope in the midst
of the short cold days
as we forget what used to be alive,
and as snow falls its first flakes,
I remember your promise
is not too far off in the waiting.

Share your thoughts

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s