Hope
Even from the warm side
of the window
the leaves look icy;
it's the shallow angle
of the light
waning, I am waking -
the glow of dreams
fading;
a cup of coffee
a bowl of whey
3 cigarettes
tangled hair, wrinkled
bedclothes,
smelling all too
human.

Eating makes me feel sick
so early, it hurts
to rise, overexerted
a sprint carried
a 100 yards
too far;
I pick the stars
out of my eyes
flick them from my nails
into the carpet threads;
I know -
I will run again today
cold or no -
nothing stops me
now.

Ever I honor winter
I was told: I would hate snow
by this age, though still
I feel a fondness - flurries broke
across the highway
the week before Thanksgiving;
less consumed with
driving cautious
than the childish hope
that the flakes would stick;
younger, I would wake
in the middle of the night
and scan the yard
for that White-Blue
Light.