from the window

from the window

in the cold dark before dawn,

water for coffee just beginning

to boil,

frost forms on silhouettes

of nightmare’s dream.

kettle whistles silently

from dusk light kitchen,

dream continues to bleed

a drop at a time on the clean

breakfast floor.

light is breaking fast now,

i see it through the window,

falling on sleeping winter tree limbs--

bleeding dreams of their own,

as i pour scalding water over

ground children of violence,

far from their mountain homes--

bitter black good morning america.

from the window, through the coffee,

a bundled woman walks her morning dog,

tail wagging fiercely.

on the street, cars convey

weekend working stiffs

to dead end jobs.

leonard cohen plays sweetly

in the coffee air of this long, narrow room,

diamond hard frost sharpens the dream,

silhouettes fade to grey, fall from sight,

another day begins.

vcp