These early
November mornings
when low
far off
sun catches
cloud underbellies
and one
can hear
them giggle
and purr
like a
lazy dog
Close
One twig
maybe root
can’t see
yet clutch
hoping that
feet find
solid ground
pull up
put over
finally lay
staring up
at clouds
oh aren’t
they pretty
Sherbet
It’s this
the before
all else
the quiet
lazy slow
when wishes
and dreams
bubble up
and float
and the
low sun
turns the
clouds into
orange sherbet
Knew
I woke
to rain
a purr
of percussion
I opened
the window
and watched
as drops
broke the
mirrors of
light puddles
and everything
else besides
the cool
shiny black
of streets
returning to
bed then
I knew
Mittens
To be
back after
being gone
felt like
I was
a pair
of very
cold hands
slipping slowly
into a
pair of
warm mittens
