Winter is only a word,
The sun refuses her seasonal salutation.
I am awake and eager,
All arms and elbows,
Backbend and triangle pose.
I am sun-bleached book covers,
Blank journal pages and
Colorful magazine clippings
Glued across a notebook at random.
I am insatiable of words and sugar,
Oatmeal and black coffee,
Parker and Rilkes and Sandburg.
Besides, what else would I do
With a rainy eight a.m.?
Posted for the Tuesday Platform at the Imaginary Gardens.