Misty

January reeks of salt

On the roads and

Painted pine trees

Smothered in

Delicate Monet strokes

The old couple

Sits in the corner

Reading yesterday’s paper

With coffee in hand

Like they do most Sunday’s

I become wrapped up with

The warmth from their laughter

And I stare out this window

Imagining myself writing

Poems out of snow angels

And notes to the few

People I did not let down

I sit alone with no

Intentions of moving

With the exception of my hand

I can’t help but smile now

For this is my moment of

Both heaven and hell