My suspicions are confirmed,
As I peek beyond the curtain:
The sun is as cold as I,
Pulling clouds, like blankets, up to it's chin.
The disappointments of the day,
Have yet to make us hide our faces.
So each of us stretch our tendrils upward,
Awakening at equally slow paces.
I shake hairs gone awry,
His dissolve with a sigh.
He clothes himself in blue,
A jacket, shirt, and jeans, for me, will do.
I take stock of the clock.
The bus, I trust, will be here any minute.
I hope, to cope, with the inability to finish.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I think we we all have had mornings like this. I enjoyed it. Very good.