Better Things
There are places to go,
and the weatherman lied;
places to go,
but not quite yet.
Life is better served
returning to the bed,
crawling under the quilt
and laying next to your warmth.
We can look out the window together
and talk skin to skin,
soul to soul
as only those without time can.
There are places to go,
and you can hear others making the journey,
their tires squirreling in the snow.
They can hurry. We have better things to do
and the wisdom to know
the wisdom of occasionally going
nowhere.
About this poem.
The weatherman DID lie. A trickle of predicted snow turned into two days of the stuff. But we did head out to our places to go, instead of lingering at home and looking out windows together with a cup of coffee in our hands.
But the lingering would have been better.
Tom
PS: The pictures are from my driveway this morning.
