A Morning Full of Gifts
The snow is delayed by a few hours,
a respite, or a delay, depending on how you see
the idea of two feet of the stuff in 36 hours.
Me, I am ready for it. To be forced to stop,
the duties of the world covered in white,
decisions put off, work put off. Rest.
Not that I will. Even snowed in,
there are things to do, but they are my things.
Poetry to write. Paintings to complete,
a long morning with my wife over too much coffee.
There are books to read.
Thoughts to think without guilt.
And so while the world around you moans,
I am like a child at Christmas eve, ever eager
for a morning full of gifts.
About this poem.
I am sitting in my second-choice diner and all the talk is the impending snowstorm, which was supposed to begin this morning, and is now due to hit late tonight. Oodles of inches predicted. No one is happy it seems, except me.
The photograph is a detail from one of my paintings. Sometimes, I find the details I shoot more compelling than the painting as a whole.