Five in the Morning

 

Branches bow
and nod heavy
with white
frozen wet wings

as ice cream coned hedges
take winter’s first lick
on a snow covered
crisp crackling dawn.

The house is quiet.
Ghosts are asleep.
Not even dad
can haunt me in this space.

Yet, as I flush
another poem
through this vein,
I know nothing
is gentler…
or scarier… than this snow
that reflects
the pale blue light of dawn.

By Shawn R. Jones 2015

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