Another grim, grey story murmurs the morning headlines,
On top of grumpy wood
While a half-drank cup of coffee accepts its fate.
Like a basking lion,
The knife rests along the tops of a clean, white plate.
Morning’s glory tiptoes through the kitchen,
As dust dances from the neglected corners of the room.
I am still waiting for my toast to pop.
Perhaps there is music in everything we do.
You collect that pop toast,
You make time for yourself!
The trees are waving-
Looks like Mother Nature finally got around to repainting them-
That deep green.