It’s eggs and muffins and bacon and juice
and potatoes and pancakes for dinner
and I’m looking at the bubbling
smelling the cooking imagining nothing
beyond this room
except tea later
when it’s clean and all is away
when stars begin to show through the veil
a light winter wind moves the brown limbs
on the tree dormant not far from me
as I sit dormant but aware
of distant blooms and grand schemes
that may or may not ever happen.
The Word Rummager 
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