It begins on those humble mornings,
Where wispy clouds linger in the sky
the color of white oak.
When the leaves collect in the gutters
and are soggy like corn flakes
and their color is markedly indistinct.
A morning for the birds to make
their shrill calls
And enhance the feeling that
you are at a low, cold altitude.
If the coffee is hot, burnt, and stale,
then it is a coronation of this morning.
On the highways
People listen to news radio with the windows cracked
and a ribbon of cold air and sweat on their faces
and know that soon
They will be home.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
It begins on those humble mornings,
Where wispy clouds linger in the sky
the color of white oak.
When the leaves collect in the gutters
and are soggy like corn flakes
and their color is markedly indistinct.
A morning for the birds to make
their shrill calls
And enhance the feeling that
you are at a low, cold altitude.
If the coffee is hot, burnt, and stale,
then it is a coronation of this morning.
On the highways
People listen to news radio with the windows cracked
and a ribbon of cold air and sweat on their faces
and know that soon
They will be home.
Request permission to use this poem