At 2Am,
the lights dim themselves in golden globes
pouring into the rooms quietly,
my pen scratches like the tiny ice
crystals on the window-
rain to snow.

your snoring is like the house
breathing in deep bellows
a moose in a deep valley,
crossing the stream
through the morning’s breath.

I savor the moment, the time
the scratches, the fog,
taste of coffee-
grounds at the bottom
of the cup.

13 December 2008
storing away the bits
like the