January Sunday

January Sunday

Likely upon the January grasses, pellets had landed
overnight, translucent and white, pixels random,
in tandem with the dewdrops earlier arrived.

Expectations rise upon the opening skies,
blue unveiled, framed and valanced,
gray and white balanced surrounding the staccato window.

I hear the crunch beneath my soles,
bb’s enmeshing blades of grass and answering
the blackbird’s opening monologue.

No one takes it casually, the ice might make
us a river slide if the temperature falls 2 or 3.
No one dresses up for the occasion, Sunday morning

Waking once more.

Not yet snow, but threatening so, we wait until
the invitation is final.