Winter Morning

April 2, 2009

They say the darkest hour is
Just before dawn
But I wonder sometimes if
Dawn isn’t darker
Muted light in blunted tones
Putting paid to dreams of sunlight,
Gentle mist negating stars
Familiar in its dampness.

Warm steam rises from
The pot the bottle bubbles in,
Fogging the window pane.
The kitchen light caresses fondly
Her small round head,
Dancing gently
Off soft brown hairs.

I hope she learns to see
Only the beauty in the
Grey sky morning,
And not the warning.


Written 8 July 08 – ER


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