MONDAY MORNING

I awake at half past nine, still in bed

read a few translations from the Book

of Songs, getting up put coffee to drip,

drink juice waiting, and then, with

my cup of coffee, go before the open

window and the laptop, sit down.

Framed, white clouds, a stretch

of a pale blue sky, land undulating

below in green and yellow-brown, 

all still in the landscape, and the only

sound a barely audible hum of traffic,

like a rushing river in the far distance,

all else silence until a bid chirps.

04.08.2024

Poem Poems Poetry Verse

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