5 AM – a Typewriter Poem

Shocking, this deep frigid air this early, ever. The blade of it cuts the breath. This morning when I got up at 5 AM the weather on my iPhone said it was 13 degrees and felt like 1. November and the ground covered with snow before Thanksgiving.

I light the candles, make coffee, settle into the dark stillness of this sweet hour as the silver light begins to rise out the window over the white ground.

Sit down at the typewriter with my tiny votive. . .

Air sharp as cats claw_1255


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in cold, Poetry, typewriter poems and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to 5 AM – a Typewriter Poem

  1. Lovely! I like your new site.

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