Tints of Slow Yellow
The windowpane is weeping,
the sky has paused its slow stalking clouds
they hang now as still as rocks.
There was an ill-wind last night
it woke up the morning light too early.
I could write on the glass with a fingertip
but words would cry themselves to sleep
in this unmoving dreamscape.
A faint suspicion of yellow
slowly creeps up to my door
at a pace too endless to measure.
I turn away
listening for the telltale creaking
of my mouth
swallow this moment down
switch on the TV
where there may be is some activity
happening somewhere.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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