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Rated: E · Poetry · Drama · #2212469
One morning at my house.
This morning as I write
on my MacBook, a light
greets the dawn.
I hear a strange sound
coming from the sunroom,
like some giant leaning
against the roof,
but I do not fear,
because I know it is
merely the winter wind.
I sip vanilla coffee
to warm and satisfy
my stomach; I am
hunger secure,
knowing there is
stew in the crockpot.
My security is shattered,
however, when I look
in the living room
at the fireplace:
a sobering revelation—
I ran out of firewood.
It is cold in this house.
My improvidence
precedes me…
I shake after all.

26 Lines
Writer’s Cramp

—light snowfall
—strange sound
—stew in the crockpot
—ran out of firewood
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2212469-Shivers