morning poem, january 8, 2015

 

 

White smoke rises from the chimney

And fades into the white sky.

There is no horizon and no clear lines

All is as if inside a cloud

As if in a dream.

Only the whisper of the rain on the puddles

And rushing from the roof and gulping down the drains

Wakes me and assures me I am alive

And this world is real.

 

Copyright 2015

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