6 A.M. on Tuesday

Waning dawns

at an open door

beckoning a bleary writer

to awe,

bitter coffee contrasted

with the sweet of birdsong,

crickets, sunstreaks

creaking over maple & mountain.

Soon mornings will require

a closed door,

strategies

for hunkering against cold,

the Holiday Season, the urge

to hibernate

under a mountain of quilts

with the furnace on.

This morning

pull on socks & sweater,

take what you can get,

grateful

for what you have been given.