Rain keeps me in, wrapped in my own dry skin; this warmth
of paper piling around me ready to ignite, this mountain of me.
The soft, expectant keys on my laptop accompany
the fractional opening of bedroom blinds to let in some light.
Dusty bulbs on the chandelier, unlit, hanging above
a bouquet of lilies, carnations, mums - a single rose bulb, dusty pink.
The sun-streaked sky fills with light mist, a paradox,
while winter clouds charge like cattle overhead, a mindless drove.
I sip coffee beans, sit to hear my body awaken to this brighter room,
myself in it, content, glad for silence and ceilings.
I wake up in fog, blocking my passages and the taste of near rain;
this closed-in day, licked and sealed before I unwrap my covers.
This is our morning ritual - propped pillows, mugs of tea, unstifled yawns
and animal stretches, a slow caress with lightly pressing palms.
The spindly trees stand outside like soldiers, after battling high winds
and rounds of machine-gun rain, they stand at the morning's command.