Waking in Winter
Where my flank rests
against your thigh,
I see the color
of closed eyes,
an undercover shade of leg
lidding buttock,
a grey marked
by morning–blurred purple
awaiting rumple–the space slow
to unstick. Sky outside lighter,
though grey enough,
above the field’s bright sheet,
as it lays down
more snow.
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A poem of sorts in 55 words continuing the tradition of the G-Man, Mr. Know-it-all, for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads; in this case, Kerry asked us also to think about a color.
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