Soup. What I
really want at this moment is soup,
the last of the leftover chili with large pieces of onion, white, and eighth inch chunked peppers, jalapeno for their dark green and red bell peppers, same size, a festive look,
and
fresh hot coffee with creamer, brown, dark tan, and white sugar swirled
and
then sit by my picture window looking out
and
east on a bright clear cold winter,
my tree barren of leaves with branches lightly white frosted
but holding firm a deep promise of soon green soon spring,
unimaginable against a sub zero C breeze,
the green of my peppers hidden now deep now
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