poem 333 of a poem a day for 2012

slow fingering my soul's music into keys

I wake up

and its 36 degrees

and the inkblots

of my dreams

fall out as if sand

from the corners

of my eyes

somewhere

beneath the pile

of an extra blanket

is my curled body

beginning to stretch

and reach with my feet

for solid conscious ground

and I find the cold air

at the precipice of Autumn

is waiting for me

as if in the quiet minions

of harbinger snow lying in wait

in the frost on the cars

outside the window I left open

to siphon the dark

and grind the falling stars

into my sleep

a whole night

of carousal-ing images

on a diner rack

spinning desires over easy

and toasting them lightly

with some fresh squeezed

orange juice in small glasses

the coffee is poured

one after another

until I finally look up

and yawn

I pull the paper close

and mumble about my arms

not being long enough

to read after I turned 40

and nothing makes sense

in the news so I slow

my beating heart down a bit

and peer out the window

at the purity of the silence

draped over mornings now

wishing I too

was with those seed birds

gone south for Winter again

EJR ©