Concerning the morning wind
The corn flakes had been sitting
in the bowl of milk for five minutes now.
She sat there quietly, decisively staring at it.
Neither of them bothered to turn on the light.
There was enough Saturday sun to filter through
the blinds and spill out around the tiny room.
She was crouching on the kitchen counter top,
balancing on the balls of her feet.
A cool cup of tea was being clutched, not by
her hands, but his. She was hugging her knees,
chewing an ice cube.
Standing there, he didn’t seem to be bothered by
his cereal turning to mush, or his drink falling
to room temperature.
Having just showered, her hair kept her shoulders
wet. The open breeze was kissing her arms.
It was a cool morning and neither she, nor he, thought
to close the window.
The wind was not as loud as the silence
And neither thing could be as noisy as the
breaking of ice between her teeth.