SundayMorn


The sky is

Filled with plump

Blimps tethered to

Trees by the

Dropped lines of

Falling silent rain

Above halos of

White sunshine hovers

Like deep stark

Snowdrifts on rooftops

Apt to fall

At the least

Shake of warmth

Above that days

Blue blemishes peek

Like curious children

Through the knotholes

Of weathered pine

As the deep

Rich aromatic brew

Wafts beside me

And silence silences

Every other thing