Writing

I have recently begun writing again, surprisingly. Maybe it's the change in weather. Anyway, I thought I'd share a poem. Not my best but it's a start.

It is morning and the sun takes a hesitant step out
Over the edge of the world

It is morning and the sun gets lost on a cloudy mountaintop

It is morning and my fingers are cold around the smooth metal
Of the oatmeal spoon
Where it bathes in diminishing milk and is arrested
By its own vague reflection
Stretched out beside it in the bowl

It is morning and my neighbors roll out, car by car
Wreathed in smoky exhalations
Yawning in time to talk radio

It is morning and the news is grim
The world breaking out in angry red rashes
Whole countries battling exema of ideals

It is morning and a robin cocks his head on the lawn
Waiting for the sounds of earthworms thrumming in the thawing ground

It is hardly morning anymore and the sun is dug out of a snowbank
Weak and hardly breathing but alive

 Spring is coming to Ohio, slowly.