Hanson's Bridge (part three....cabin fever)

a morning cup of steaming
black coffee
sits on the window sill;
i
cross my arms
to warm my hands
beneath my armpits
and watch
beyond the frosted pane
as the snow
slowly
buries the birches;
it has already buried
the asphalt road
that leads to Hanson's Bridge
so there will be no treks
for at least a week,
only a silent
monochrome
vigil
from behind
a frosted pane;

not long ago
i watched the naked trees
scratch at the gray autumn sky
while blushing leaves
rolled giggling across the lawn
then just as quickly
as winter began
i find myself
in the middle of it
waiting....

a far off voice asks me
who are you this morning?
and i answer
Gene Autrey
with a headache
pounding like thundering hooves
and the far off voice replies
would you like another cup of coffee?

i press my burning forehead
against the cold
translucent membrane
and whisper...
no