Written Works

Snow Day by Gary Walker

updated on 
The whicker of wind outside
my window tells me leaving
the haven of my bed
would be a mistake.

No breakfast eaten
or new day begun,
no matter how delicious
or auspicious,
can contend with the loving
press of a flannel sheet
or the promised rush
of anesthetic joy.

Dreams pull me down,
promising
one more and
one more and
one more
minute of bliss.

So I stay.