Up before the alarm clock, but after the coffee was fully brewed makes for a good start.
The morning sun bakes a golden sheen onto the quickly browning landscape of the front forest.
Warmth does not accompany the light but does allude to sweater weather to come, perhaps by midday.
Two stanza's in and my coffee cup is drained, need shorter stanzas or a bigger cup.
Deep desire to translate the world around me begs the question, where to start.
While shadowy vines creep up ancient oaks, piercing the past, enveloping the present.
My thoughts are pulled from the outer beauty and sink into a morass of Saturday morning schemes.
Very much feeling that I am the cusp of a very bad idea the choice is made to refill the cup.
Ah, the nectar-O-tha' gods, sweet freedom, liquid sleep, beans of power - give me strength.
Not that the the tall dark beverage with the recycled cinnamon stick at the bottom can solve everything.
But it is certainly a grand place to start. EVERYBODY, java's on me. Drink up, then meet me at the next poem. - b2
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