The morning silence
far from silent
tugs at my senses
to be heard
windchimes dance in the snowflakes
the scrape of windshield across the way
and snow plow further down the darkness
and all around
the pillows mound
soften lines
muffle the music
the voices of the past
— don’t go out after you bath
— don’t go out with wet hair
— it’s freezing
— you’ll catch your death
valiantly fail to quash the magic
of the morning

Author: April Wells
Published February 11, 2016