The Grass Grows White

 
You can see your breath in the air
The morning is cold
It is only 50 degrees
An interesting temperature
Nothing has frozen yet
But it might as well all have;

I extend my eye and hand to the sky and land
They have fallen asleep
Even the sun
It hangs in the air
Dozing
The light is bright but it has no intent
Like a lamp left on by accident.

I have to put my hands in my pockets now, and I wish I brought a hat;
I use the hot water when doing the dishes now,
We had French onion soup yesterday for dinner,
Red wine steak and pesto toast
My bowl the only thing in the world too hot