Big Tent Poetry: Wordle

Here are the words we are challenged to use.  I managed just a few.



My husband is awake.
I can hear the water running
in the bathroom

and the radio blaring.
I might have time
to write this poem.

I'm sitting in the lush,
early morning sun
as it is forklifted

from behind the mountain
on this our last Thanksgiving
in the cold north.

Soon I'll cook apple maple
chicken sausage, poached eggs,
and toast 7 grain sprouted-

wheat Ezekiel bread. I'll
smother it all with hollandaise
sauce. We'll sit cupped

in the palm of this day. I
hear footsteps on the stairs
and my poem is done.