In the fourteenth hour of this day,

The dawn is still in hiding,

Scared off by the soft white skies that spill in from my window,

Painting my walls with a hush.

My heart sleeps,

And I nod the same tune.

How right Hemingway was about a 'clean well-lit room',

Such simple pleasantness reflects back on the body,

And makes the soul sing;

Hopeless harmonies shimmer in my eyes,

As the porch chair dies in snow.