Saturday Morning In Winter
Morning scratches at the glass.
and the screen glares back white.
Boiling water recalls the heat of thoughts,
a small bird lands on a branch of sunrise.
And whipping the cream to clot,
as if the cream will stop tomorrow,
I look out the window, hopeful
at the snow, the icy dunes.
What strength a lover has
who pretends nonchalance!
My fingers freeze at the keyboard
When he calls me back to bed.