This morning's light seemed to blink on,
suddenly, like an urgent message.
It painted the lone, brittle cloud, racing somewhere
warmer, a shocking school-bus yellow.
There's a -30 degree wind-chill this morning,
my coffee seemed hotter and more comforting.
I usually keep my windows cracked at night
but this air feels aggressive and sharp as a knife.
The quad, usually bustling on weekend mornings,
is empty and the few cars I see are smoking like old steam trains.
I was dreaming of sweets and of walking to "Donut Crazy, "
but that actually would be crazy, if not suicidal.
"Ooo! " I say after digging through the kitchen cupboards, "we have pop-tarts! "
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I liked the reality of this piece, setting the readers right there beside you on this frigid morning at college---top marks!
Thanks for commenting Susan =]