Wednesday, January 6, 2010

A wee poem

Rising Early to Make Coffee

It is a cold and clear morning
the street is empty

Pink sky pushes
the indigo of night away

I press my face
to the cold window glass

My breath,
like a ghost appears

I am six again
waking to magic ice swirled panes

Grandma says, "Jack Frost came in the night!"

I close my eyes
let it brew


If you have landed in my tree..give me a chirp,fluff your feathers...drop... me a comment

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