Not haiku

There are better mornings,
when the sun is a glorious yellow
and shines pink and blue through the trees,
or when the fog is thick dark gray
and makes one even more grateful for coffee,
warm to brace against the cold,
and satisfyingly hot, buttered toast crunches.
Yet this chill,
despite insomnia,
creeping about to the snores of guests,
and wispy, noncommittal fog
that obscures nothing
but the color of sun rays,
has its own charm:
cat kisses over cold tea,
the smell of peeling an orange,
the quiet roar of the heater,
undisturbed reading and meditation,
grandpa’s paintings of trees...
Perhaps this morning will do.

From the window...

From the window—
dark outlines of green trees,
wispy gray fog.