The chilly morning air has me
hiding beneath the familiar fluff
of that ratty old comforter
that I love so much.
My legs instinctively
pin down the edges and hold on
careful not to let any stockpiled body heat
escape through secret doorways.
I turn my back on the window
that has betrayed me once again.
The evidence of it's betrayal
leaving a thick frost on the inside
to greet me each morning.
Oh, the draft can be felt
all the way across the room
here on my bed.
Winter mornings can be brutal!
My feet defy me and refuse
to leave the cozy pocket they've found
just to be shocked awake by the icy floor.
I wish I could stay here all day
soaking up your body heat like a thief
while you sleep like
an innocent bystander.
Can you blame me?
Your body has found a way to
turn ice-cold air into
warm, intoxicating comfort.
The day must begin
so I'll make a mad dash through the house
to the back room
to kick up the thermostat.
It still doesn't compare to the warmth
that bed holds between the ratty old comforter
and you.
I like the familiar tone of voice in the poem, making me feel as if I've known you all my life. Warm regards, Gina.
I read this as a metaphor for the warmth of love you feel from your families love. Excellent poem Mary. Rusty
This takes me back to my childhood before Central Heating was invented. I always remember looking a Jack Frost on the inside of the windows, and the wonderful patterns he wrought there. It may have been cold, but gee the memories are of something really wonderful. Thanks for this reminder. Love Ernestine XXX
Dear Mary, This is a very sweet poem. It is all about love and the warmth it provides metaphorically and literally in our lives. A fine write. Warm regards, Hugh
This is so very sweet. I envy you your warmth. Perhaps the window did you a service - as the rain did, in another poem about Mothers' Day. I just thought this was wonderful.
Nothing feels better than a warm bed on a cold day/night... except, of course, having someone to share it with. Very sweet! Brian
Intriguing metaphors and I do like the energy towards the end. Also... we all have a ratty comforter, but why oh why does it/he/she have to ratty? That's life for a poet. xL
Cocooned in the warmth of your words that have the power to light our fire. love Duncan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hey Mary, I really like this. I can associate with these words well.