[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]