The forecast calls
For cold.
You wake me in
The dark of very
Early morning,
Just a tickle
Of whiskers on the
Foot flung from
Beneath the covers.
Irrational exuberance
Leads us out the door,
Through the crusted snow,
And pauses to be washed
With moonlight.
Inside we go,
Circling around the
Sofa at warp speed.
You dash down breakfast,
And after one more blitzkrieg
Circling,
Snooze
Until the sun comes up
And we venture out
Again.
Categories: Poetry