The Voice Issue 32: October 2017 - Page 6

6

Morning poem

Fog woke me

that morning.

He crept in my

open window,

stirring me from my rest.

He did nothing more than

than soothe me:

dreams sometimes were frightening.

I knew he must

leave soon for sun

was waking and she didn't like company,

but he would be back.

As soon as the moon

was halfway in the sky

he would come;

I would leave the window open.

- love to write, Richmond, VT