Fifteen Minutes

Forty degrees

and here I am in my coat

over nightgown and robe,

socks and slippers on my feet

and my first cup of tea beside me,

in my rocker on the front porch

watching morning creep over the hill.

I am like my dogs running

their morning perimeter check around the edges of the fields,

a creature of habit. This is where I have my tea in April,

even if it is forty degrees. The tea cools and I sip quickly

to catch its disappearing warmth and sweetness.

A mile away I hear the crunch of gravel, a car door slam,

the sound of hammer on wood.

Someone is at the church, fixing what?

A broken window, a loose shingle, or

putting up a new sign before Sunday service?

Two male cardinals quarrel at the feeder;

in the chicken house the hens hum and trill

and one raises a raucous ruckus, announcing

the arrival of the first egg of the morning.

Clouds slide across the blue dome above,

leaving a whisper of rain in their path,

then all is bright and golden in the light

sifting through the still thinly clad trees.

A single web, one long thin line of spun thread,

catches the sun and shines rainbow-bright

for a second or two,

its glory probably not noticed

by the busy spinner that created it.

 

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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