glorious morning

Given that outside my world is a wall of white I'm going to assume that the above was my "glorious morning" promised and that this blizzard doesn't count. This morning, though, the new-lit dawn and playful winds---that was glorious. The warm air, the brisk walk to class, the heady moisture clinging to the dry air.

The canvas, newly gessoed, that waits patiently on my easel. The titanium white acrylic that rests on its side, shiny and plump in its newness. Knowing that all I have to do is make the decision to paint.

The soy milk in my fridge, the cranberries in my cupboard. A perfect breakfast. My bed not made, sheepskin tossed to the floor amidst pillows and books. Poetry journal open at my feet.

My fiftieth post, words running into each other in drunken stupor, typos abound. Praises for proofreading and the automatic spell check. I put e's in everything.

Pull the blinds, no need to remember the storm outside, a room of comforting darkness, the thermostat back up to 71. She's pushing it, and she knows it. I twist it back to 55.

Curl into the orange arabesque of my comforter, curl into the pillows along the wall.

Yes. Glorious indeed.