It’s early morning./
The sun/
sleeps in./
In this winter farmland,/
he,/
lazy like me,/
has not yet shucked
his blanket.
But the moon,/
bright,/
woman-full
and luscious,/
works her way/
through cold/
spindly/
cottonwood-maple-willow/
tree fingers./
They reach skyward
to cup her/
and hold her/
and uphold her/
longer/
until Apollo/
can wake up.
Thick and heavy, like/
a gray quilt, the sunset and/
geese calls blanket me.
I froze in last night’s/
rain, but now I feel good. She/
has a new blanket.
OR
I froze in last night’s/
Rain, but now I’m ok. She/
has a new blanket.
Like a woman reading
In her soft, quilted bed,
With warm, golden lamp light
Glowing ’round her head,
So do fall’s fading flowers
Of Albion’s alpine meadows shine
As they show off late beauty
At sunset, one last time.
For soon a warm blanket,
Soft, deep and white,
Will form a safe coverlet
And protect them both at night.
Then, the brightness of morning and spring
Will amaze the eyes with the beauty waking brings.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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