Poem For a Winter Morning

It’s hard to take good photos of sunrise. It’s worth trying only because of the sad but warm feeling you get when you try showing someone the cell phone snaps you took, and then explain to them that they really had to be there.

People present at bombings and other violent disasters sometimes say it was “just like in the movies.” In nature when the sun is at its most expressive, we think of landscape painters. This morning, blinded by the sun gleaming off the frosted branches, I thought of Turner:

Coffee In Bed

We told each other stories about

our own courtship – biscuits made from

comic memories. The farmstand

milk in the coffee had a dank

terroir, unmistakably cow shit.

Deer outside fed on bushes just

an armslength from the carcass of

their roadkill sister. Everyone

was trapped in their own completion.

©2019 Charles Bowe