Morning Coffee

Low light on frigid peaks near and far.
Snow highlights unmoving heads of spruce
solid frozen mid November’s premature death.
Last gasp of the river escapes in a ghostly
blanket under shortened sun.
I shiver inside, robed and slippered
grasp the cup
drink your words

Ode of Halley’s Mother

Some hold their children like trophies

Look at what I’ve done

I’ve won the prize

Isn’t it perfect? Aren’t I good?

And theirs sit on the shelf

in the corner, gather dust

lifeless, boring prettiness

until boxed up and carried away

I watch you like a comet

rage across the sky

fly in the face of reason

flee all that burns of me

You play in black holes

and return unscathed

In your path is passion

laughter, drive

My setting sun glows

you rise to music

dash about time

shield your eyes to my light

In need of nothing

you feed on your own fire

forge personal trophies

spill sparks of your day to me