Bare Feet on a Cold Morn


I don’t think I’ve ever been this quite aware,
Of my morning routine when my feet are bare,
If you wake when I do ‘fore sun is quite up.
The house is quite still you’ve not had your first cup.


The family is sleeping still silent in bed,
The house is not lighted; toward kitchen you head,
You feel every bump in the carpet of twill,
Your feet reach the tile; awake with a chill.


Now out for the paper you test all ten toes,
And onto the porch where the cooler wind blows,
You walk around searching ‘til paper you find,
But, the chill on the feet it now clutters your mind.


Back in for the java; you spy with a grin,
Instead of a drink I might put my toes in,
With fall on the rise, I’ll not cry, I’ll not pout,
Just back to the closet; my slippers are out.


Peter Lowell Paulson
August 20, 2012