Rainy winter hours
to page through,
forgetting the fogged-out world.
Plum tart book corner,
overstuffed cushions oozing.
Crinkle of paper over jazz
and crumbs scooped up by sparrows
that whisper on overleafs and gilt spines.
Glances across tables
like poppy seeds cracking on the tongue
lemon sizzle drizzle
beneath the mysteries and thrillers.
Ignore the intrusive thought,
a pale gold moth vibrating against the window.
Mountains within elbow reach of my little nook,
unmoored in oceans of words
and elaborate inner spaces
now lit and humming, tangible.
Hiss of capucines
dark sinuous, melting chocolate souls
in bone china cups.
Sugar dusted wings open
in an exhalation of truth,
I stand rooted outside the froth-steamed windows,
anchored by toddlers’ routines
and the lack of sleep for dreams.