Moods of a Winter Morning


winter morn

pine needles salt
verdant blades of rustling poetry,
on marmalade winter morns
tinged in cerise tinted humilities,
like wisps of snowflakes
from tattered cloudy pillows
caressing parched cheek wrinkles
scratched in frost’s fingernails
in surreal honeydew kisses.

winter morn1

the morning is a faded manuscript
with illegible words shivering
on parched blankness of frozen moments
like blue annotations
of cyanosis on frostbitten silences,
while autumn disrobed trees
are draped in frozen quietudes
as they indulge in dreams
of weaver birds nurturing posterities
within fertilities of flimsy clouds,
and cranes meditating over azure glitters
to gather nature’s psalms from
golden fingers of lukewarm sunshine.

winter morn2

frost freckled glass window-panes
wink at mornings aromatic in
roasting marshmallows on cozy fireplaces,
pink roses bloom on vines
like sinuous lines of scribbled poetry
peppered in snowflake sighs
of a lethargic morn in January,
and fuming cups of eggnog lattes served
in chilled minutes, crisp as frost
blend like incense mingling
in the temple’s sinews of piety.

winter morn3

skies are crocheted in abstract fluidities
like a poet’s scribed imagination,
at twilights piquant in spicy roasted potatoes,
sweet peas taste like reunions
with long lost friends on a starved tongue,
adding flavor to evenings insipid
like cold bowls of soups forgotten on
table tops ignored in preoccupied business,
while crumpled blankets on the bed
lure moods with promise of sleepy lethargy…

winter morn4


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