Furnace awakes and hums her morning melody,
meeting what the night’s storm left behind–
damp Earth.
Subtly alert,
speaking only in whispers to a still witness.
I look outside my window.
Droplets adorn pine needles,
glistening in a gentle wave,
then slipping down to meet a mud puddle below.
Sun is not shining. She is hiding.
Still languid under her cloud covers,
diffusing that brilliant sparkle into a softness that–
mutes the greens and darkens the browns,
leaving them deep and rich.
Aspen has a ghostly glow,
stark against the altered palette.
After all the late-night chatter with Full Moon,
and endless dancing with Wind,
she is exhausted.
Contentedly dormant.
My feet feel the cold
and wriggle under a blanket
warmed by the body of my slumbering dog,
now alerting the household to a potential intruder.
The hot liquid has cooled while I write,
but I drink it anyway
and swallow expectations.
Beauty remains
even when Sun sleeps in.
