Morning

I stepped outside, and broke the first skin of ice, in a puddle, with the toe of my shoe. The grass, and deck, and cars, are painted in white frost, already beginning to melt under the rising sun. And the moon, my fat friend the moon, is pinned to a blue sky, hanging over thinning trees, white face turning translucent under daylight.
I will sit with my tea, fold laundry, and think about these things.