aubade, winter.

children of dust

longing for their mother's touch

garden pressed down

brown in a blanket of time

the windows

grow their gardens of rime

in the morning

in the kitchen you on your tiptoes

reaching for the coffee filters you

surprise me sun

coming out over town

every house puffs

tufts of smoke up

in snow down-slanting

you morning lady with your ear cocked

marry me first by curtain light

today isn't far