Good Saturday

In the fourteenth hour of this day,

The dawn is still in hiding,

Scared off by the soft white skies that spill in from my window,

Painting my walls with a hush.

My heart sleeps,

And I nod the same tune.


How right Hemingway was about a 'clean well-lit room',

Such simple pleasantness reflects back on the body,

And makes the soul sing;

Hopeless harmonies shimmer in my eyes,

As the porch chair dies in snow. 

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