Old Cotton Morning

Morning touched the sky

heavy and chill

like a long exhaled breath

hanging overhead

grey as old cotton

washed one too many times

decaying brown leaves

frozen to the pavements

shatter to the touch

of boot clad feet

they just lay there

still stuck in place

dull ice on windshields

stubbornly persists

without even the glisten

of the shadowed sun

to give interesting patterns

or crochet nature made lace

Not one bird sings

it's a cold january morning

quite eerily still

and even the grass appears misty

as the fog caresses each tip.