perfect hour

Sunday morning,
coffee made strong,
maple donuts fetched,
and you still asleep –
wrapped up deep
within my blankets
against the bustling cold
from my open windows

me in my chair,
mug in hand,
feet curled beneath me –
torn between watching
the startling sight
of a hummingbird
in fresh snow or the slow
rise of your shoulders
in bearish hibernation

© Sarah Whiteley

I did see a little hummingbird Sunday morning in the snow. I know of at least two feeders within a block, so I’m sure he’s getting fed, but still startling to see the little guy in the snow.

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as if moths

as if moths
could somehow
supply meaning
she gazes upon
the half-light
of ghost-wings
hitches of breath
leaving them
unstirred beyond
the disheartened dust
of pale sill
on a night
too damp
for flight

© Sarah Whiteley