The morning is ill-suited for a New Hampshire winter.
Bittersweet, the meanderings of first light.
It’s pronounced tangle with eve’s cold moon.
‘Tis nothing but an illusion.
Prophecies of the descent into a dark tomb.
Yet, the appeal to some wayward soul…is everything real.
Different sorts of disciples of goose down and denim.
Quivering lots prone to,
Coming round again,
weathered slight hours.
Belonging to protected forests.
Societies of loners gathering each chilled day.
Basking in the sway of creaking trees.
But there is no kindness to morrow’s light.
It’s malice simply to purify night.