There is a morning scent, perhaps a mix of damp leaves and lawn
near the sidewalk, a still pool of last night's fury; the calm, labouring earth.
Sideboard heaters keep me in a dizzy dream state, a thin pane
of glass separates this warm bubble from winter's cold pin.
In winter's gray morning wind, the trees find their rhythm,
they sway in a whimsical ballet, bursts of petite jettes.
Gray hangs over my view frame like a canvas
from the couch, through the sliding glass the day is a still-life.
The day is submerged in water, drowns the thirsty plants,
we look to the sky for small pools of mercy, are given the skim off the Atlantic.