Morning

The old coffee pot's comforting sound,

Cuts through the early dawn fog that surrounds my brain.

Wrapped up in an old fuzzy blanket, waiting for the snow to fall,

Watching the sun rise through the storm, praying that this moment would last forever.

Soon I hear footsteps on the stairs, and someone splashes coffee in a mug.

The spell of snow and sun not yet broken, not until I feel warm arms around me.

Older than my thread-bare blanket, more comforting than the steel coffee pot,

Warmer than the winter sun, but not as magical as winter morning.