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,
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,
for what you have been given.