Fresh Snow

Post storm blues.

In the slow-coming post storm
Morning light I compare you
To tracks in the fresh snow.
I don’t love and I don’t hate,
But you are the intrusion
That disturbs my morning
Coffee and reading; a steady
Drip of a leaky faucet that
I should fix, but probably
Will leave on the to-do list
Until it becomes the kind
That throbs like a toothache
Left too long unattended in
The slow-coming morning light.