BB Grey–musings

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Luna,

It’s Saturday, and my pen itches to spill a line or two,
to bridge the quiet miles and catch you up on this snow-draped day.
A foot of white has tumbled down, with six more inches whispering near,
and Monday looms with threats of yet another heavy shroud.

There’s a hush in freshly fallen snow, a tender spell—
silence stacking soft as miniature doilies,
each flake a stitch in a downy quilt flung wide across the earth.
The sun dares a peek at the edges,
casting halos of gold through branches caked and bowed,
where icicles gleam—long, perilous, prehistoric daggers
dripping time in frozen tears.

Chimneys exhale plumes of white,
birds fluff their feathers, shrugging off the wet,
while squirrels dart, bewildered,
sniffing for yesterday’s buried treasures, lost to the drift.
I perch at my window seat,
a thousand-foot screen alive in high definition—
stereo hum weaving scent into sound,
a richness no common set could dream to hold.

A chill sneaks through a pane,
where seventy-five years of glaze surrendered—
worn thin by summer’s swell and winter’s shrink.
On the floor, cold’s ghost lies spilled,
its shape pressed faint beneath the snow’s veil.
I picture a tombstone etched in frost:
“He glazed all he could, and now he’s glue.”
A smirk curls my lips—life’s little jest on this crisp morn.

I linger, drinking it all in,
stealing an extra minute past my fifteen,
letting the world unfold in stillness,
a poem framed in glass and snow,

for you.

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