The Color of Morning

//

Aurora Borealis, it’s called,

the smooth ink that runs

from my Petrol fountain pen.

I slip tired arms and head

into my Forest Pines sweatshirt,

faded from so many wears,

well worth the Cash I’d spend

all over again for the comfort.

Outside the window, Willow

stretches soft tendrils wide

around the sunlit Pond

where the killdeer nests

in a pile of bark mulch

beside the razored Grass.

It’s not long before

the Matcha hits strong:

milky Earth, the joy of life

like an early Sunday drive

with no traffic and all the

lights turning Green,

the color of morning.