Morning Snow

I awaken to a digital five A.M.,
my studio, still dressed in winter black ,
the ceiling a white bunting of
reflected street light.

The only sound is falling snow,
quiet and forlorn.
Like pen and paper to the poet.
Yes, and snow,
and all those symbols

Death, how sweet you are this morning.
In the solitude of my black room.
In the soft sound of white snow.

If i close my eyes and return to sleep,
and never to wake-
When would the moment be more right


Puma/MMX

Copyright:2010/Tony Puma
‘Voices in my head, verses to be read’.




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