on a Cold January Morning
By Don Iannone
Fluttery flakes of mad whiteness
tumble like flocks of butterflies,
without cause, or tribulation.
The morning air, stingingly cold,
drapes over me, like death,
on this razor-sharp January morning.
The fire toys with me, sputtering,
almost dying,
and finally resuscitating itself.
There is sun, bright white as the snow,
painfully harsh,
piercing the frozen windowpane.
Half buried, like some macabre effigy,
the morning paper taunts me
from a snowdrift at the end of the drive.
Then, without warning, my spirits revive
as the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee
fills my gasping nostrils.
The paper no longer seems so far away,
the snow not so deep,
and the day no longer frozen beyond hope.
