I wake up the long way
this morning:
my fire reflects
last night’s hearth the ashes cold
the glass remembers.

Cold cuts grow like cast iron Sundays
& I find it so easy to blink slow.

A sleepy grin etches my face
& perhaps it’s the radishes
growing wild in the gardens
I can see from the window.
Or the edge of the dawn
peeling back shy curtains
to brush with my lashes.
And maybe
it’s the rain on tin roof
and me in this blanket
with the dog and a pen
and a wood burning stove.

 


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my mine:

 

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