Fifth Morning

Robert Wrigley

Fifth Morning

After four nights below zero,
condensation on the window

above the bed’s iced paisley
in the sun, which unfortunately

but incandescently melts nothing,
just blazes through the yang and ying

patterns blossomed in the ice.
But sun-shimmered, it’s a very nice

light to watch a day arrive through,
rainbowed red and gold and silver-blue.

It keeps changing as we breathe,
so we’re reluctant to leave

the warm bed by the window,
on the fifth morning below zero.