Rude awakenings. The morning
Resembles the night. Each day filled
With the gust of bitter winds. Every
Morning, and night, like one of early
November. Less cheerful than December.
Rude mornings. The awakening of gusts
That seems like the winds at night. Morning
Which is still really night, as you sip your tea
Waiting for the light. Open fingers. From
Preparing dinner before a breakfast has been made.
Rude winds. Cold mornings, like those of December
Only less cheerful. Bleeding fingers, while
Breakfast waits. Wind whipping away the night.
Rude fingers, dinner away. Rude awakenings.