I hope that everyone’s morning and day is as good as possible!
The coffee smelled fresh and rich
as I walked downstairs
I could nearly taste the medium-blend
with the one tablespoon of sugar
and a dash of half and half
It’s going to be a good day
to drink coffee in the morning
Because that’s what life is;
reality turned over.
A partial smile
on a face you want.
A warm jacket on naked legs-
Making love in a dream,
and waking up.
The desire of a word floating
on the tip of your tongue.
The last snow flake to finally land,
and a “good morning,” spoken by a child.
I hope morning wakes you
with a passionate light
gentry brushing your brow
igniting a fervid determination-
There is only one you
Sometimes you gotta be who you are
Better than anyone
And that’s that
I want to write a story. A good story. Instead I’m writing this and putting the writing of the good story off until this is done. Whatever this is.
It’s my coffee mugs fault. I almost didn’t use it.
I opened the cupboard, looked at my favorite coffee mug, and the battle began. Use it, or save it for tomorrow? The dishwasher is empty. No chance it’ll be full enough to start. Then again I could wash it by hand. I wash dishes all the time.
I stood looking at the mug. I didn’t expect to see it. I don’t know why not.
It’s blue and white. It’s a winter scene mug. There’s a male snowman and female snow lady holding snow arms with white snow flakes decorated above them.
I love this mug. Hell with it. I’m using it this morning and I’ll write about.
We should use our favorite mug.
Sent from my iPhone
I’m even going to leave that. I’m literally writing this with my thumbs, leaning on the counter, drinking my coffee.
A light snow had fallen overnight leaving a half an inch for a small gathering of black-capped chickadees to hustle and frolic in. The small birds seemed to enjoy the season’s first snowfall as they exhibited a style of energy that suggested pure happiness. The morning sun beamed into the fresh snow and gathered itself in a glowing of the land that illuminated the birds as they flitted from snowy ground, to tree branch, back to snow. The birds left tiny marks where they had landed and hopped. From his porch, he whistled to them in their particular bird song. They didn’t call back. Not yet anyway. And that was fine too. He had his morning coffee in hand and this view of life to observe. The coffee, a bit too hot, steamed mightily, adding to the perfection of his morning.
As always, thanks for reading and feel free to share.
The birds chirped. It was 4:07 AM. He knew his grandfather was up and double checking their fishing gear. Rods, life vests, water, tackle, bait, and extra gas. He could see in his mind his grandfather’s large hands patting each item as he checked them off. He’d wear a slightly grim look, almost worrisome, but when done his face would relax.
The sheets were warm where he lay. He stretched his legs and let one foot breach and enter the morning air. He liked the crisp feeling. It felt as though his foot was detached from his body. He pushed the blankets off. He could smell coffee and bacon. Soon eggs would be frying and they would eat a good breakfast. Then, they would take the drive to the lake, put the boat in the water, and fish until noon.
The curtains drawn open-
See wind brushing tree tops?
Notice the Sun pleasing our horizon
-M. Taggart copyright 2017
Do listen on this precious morning-
The windward way is best-
And eye the most hidden of paths-
Then say goodbye to them all.
copyright 2016 -M. Taggart