On My Morning Commute

Thursday, 7:30 a.m.,
paused at a stop sign,
exhaust pipe smoke curling
into the frostbitten air—
I blast the heat,
frozen hands pressed to vents,
hindsight recovered as the ice thaws
wetly on the rear windshield.
Fighting off sleep,
facing the sun,
I’m gathering warmth to last the day,
pulling it from the atmosphere invisible,
alive,
drawing it into me like yeast into bread
in the hopes of rising.

 

So… I know it’s not fantastic, but the point is that I’ve been attempting writing again lately on an almost-regular basis.  I’m glad.  I think it’s more important to get myself back into that mindset than to demand that I produce masterpieces of literature.  Thought I might as well share.

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