Sunday Sonnet (Slightly Altered), #19, 2016

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[Image from Pinterest]

A morning of mist wherein her breath was

that of wisps: a puff of air, not even

her hair moved by breeze, but cloying, leaving

tendrils to caress her cheek, moist.  Her gloves

a possibility, even now – buzz

of bees and wasps song of June; uneven

pattern of summer weather culprit, ten

days in a row.  Chance there was sun would shine

through, burn off low-lying cloud; bring heat to

skin, buried under sweater; change to fine

climate more apt.  Leaves held promise, a mine

of warmth within the roots, near tropical.

She could sense it, even then; morning time

a weighted pause before day’s strength, and hers.

[Copyright © N R Nolan]