A Poem from Miss Mary’s House

by (listed at end)

The fog is winter frost’s way of staying around
… Sneakily.

Almost as cold,
covering everything it touches
with tiny pinpoints of awaking on skin.

Bundled under coverlet,
under vestibule,
with cream and sugar Joe
steaming up to meet his colder cousin.

I wait for Anthony and Cleopatra,
my Bald Eagles,
to return and fish off the big tree by the water
as I ponder a sunless day-off
with un-squinting eyes.

Could there be a more peaceful place
this side of heaven
than Miss Mary’s house?
Doubtful.

Laura Happel

(null) (4)

(null) (2)

© 2015 Laura Happel
Used by Permission