Early

Snow falls on the bay,
the flakes whispering as they fall on the water.

Soon the world will wake
but for now, it is you and the grey vagueness

and your thoughts, struggling to emerge
from the fog of feelings that is your brain.

About this poem

This is a whittled poem. It started about 10-12 times longer than it ended up, and I just chipped away at it, word by word, until I found the real poem underneath the verbiage. A lot of good lines were killed. But better to be less clever, and more true.

Tom