Radiance on bare limbs,
dawn’s underbelly rises fiery salmon–
Smudge of periwinkle and charcoal
streaks this sky without winter.
of silver-tipped wings, buoyant shadows,
against the wafer-thin moon.
Sudden cloud of steam,
teakettle’s high-pitched whistle:
here, here, here–
First orders of the day.
When I forget to breathe
it startles me to see my breath
in cold morning air.
Leafless woods, hushed and thin.
Mourning doves drift slantwise
through dark pines
their heavy wings, unhinged.
Away— and gone.
into the drip
First published in The Comstock Review.
The early December weather matches the weather of the year I wrote this poem, several years ago. I'm trying to find Christmas. Perhaps it's around the corner . . .