If This Isn’t Nice

If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is
A warm mug on a cold morning,
A streak of sunlight across my keyboard
Melting the stiffness of sleep from my fingers,
Cloudlets and Keats, dancing together in the sky.
Still, I can’t help but to miss it for you
How did you see it? Was it just like I do?
I hope so, and I hope I find out someday
When we fall prey to another timequake
And I’ll know when it will be too late.


Copyright 2011 Andrew Whiting


About andrewwhiting

A sentimental and sarcastic poet, lover of language, traveling and nature (not a fan of the Oxford comma).
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