Unsent
At the grimace of dawn,
you watch the day
recede from the minds eye;
keep watch for first signs
of spring – made good on its word.
Each small living thing
is seen through infant eyes,
and a blue interim has lifted
the frost – shaken black seeds
from their frigid cradles.
At days end you dine
without hunger – without the weight
of what was never yours.
Words can wait until tomorrow,
resting on the small table;
lost in fireside thoughts.
And what is it that you hear ?
The patter of tiny drums
echoing on hollow stairs,
the night breeze in flight
with cellos exhaling
through frosted windows,
or New Year primroses
talking in their sleep.
©Orion Foote
Visions of Orion Poetry 