Shades of suede appear in my tea
once it is complete with milk and sugar- a westerner’s delight.
The creamy warmth melts my hands,
pulls me in, and makes me dread
the march outside to clear last night’s
persistent powdering of frozen flakes.
The worlds hush, sound muffled by snow,
makes the house fall silent,
a bubble of life with wooden walls and glass windows
to protect from winter’s sleeping spell
that falls over the city once like
this thick, white blanket.
Yet, poetry class calls, beginning at eight am.
I leave my cup of tea on the lonely kitchen table,
and zip soft leather up to my calves,
tie a scarf under my dimpled chin to insulate my mind,
blind my peripherals.
I glove my dry hands, pull on the tired blue coat,
breath in the last warm, stale moment of this
deliberate Friday morning, and I am off
into the snow globe.