Earl Grey

It’s a wet, wet day here in Northern New Jersey. The air is chilled. With the help of a friend, I spent most of the morning removing a fallen birch tree that strected from my backyard across the road adjacent to my property. Now, I rest.

Earl Grey

There are small comforts:
the tea I sip on October afternoons,
leaves twirling and turning,
battered by winds that seep
through the valley like a rush
of cold water.

Quietly, the rising steam sways me,
fortifies my own heat, reminds me
I still possess an essential burn.

The chipmunks sense it,
pause their nervous gathering
of all that is vital:
crooked twigs and acorn shells.
Quickly, they dart, brown sparks,
near my feet, once their
contemplation ebbs.

The winds snap again,
but I am warm. The chipmunks
have scattered, disappeared
under the picket fence
into my neighbor’s yard.

I wonder –
what treasures
will they discover there?

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