Soup. Coffee. Window.

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 

within me. Soup.

POETRY LINK: the next poem in my blog ...