The Coffee Mill
I, in
Coffee house, brown
smells of addiction.choice. . .
I choose to
indulge.
Lay me down
Sally, the maid
of the bar, she
smiles as smoke
wanders and walks
along the walls
people sit and
drink and
listen to the songs
and stories told.
I have a few.
I'll share later.
The lights dim
as the time walks smoothly
past two and
eyes become sensitive
to the smoke saturated
air.
I just sit and listen.
I'll share later.
The Winter Storm
I, in cozy warm, listen and watch
The storm, rages outside...
All the weighty load offered, a burden to the trees.
A loud crackle, and a pop,
again...
and again.
Outside,
I leave the fire I had built
(to offer the night a touch of me).
Proceed to the ridge, above
No light, save the fire,
and some candles,
(safely behind the panes of dim quiet houses)...
A loud crackle, and a pop,
again.
and again.
Huge limbs crash across the way,
echoing in the muffled quiet of the snowfall.
Medium sized limbs drop nearby.
It is a symphony
of clacking cotton woods and poplars,
of cracking pines and birches,
of surrendering snow, "shhhhhhhh" after each yield,
a quiet brush-on-cymbal finish for each...
Ahhhhhhh...
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