by Mary Mageau
When I woke up this morning the rising sun filled my cold bedroom with translucent silver light. Overnight a thick layer of hoar-frost had covered the window, etching delicate patterns into the glass. Everywhere the frost created beautiful shapes resembling fir trees and in between them were sparkling patches of crystal filigree flower beds. I began to walk through this enchanted garden by running my fingers across the frost - up and down, in and out – the warmth leaving a smudged pathway. Suddenly my mother called, "Susan, come away from that cold window and eat your breakfast, before the school bus leaves without you." Reluctantly I moved away from my window and began to dress.
Mary Mageau, who lives "Down Under," writes whenever she can and publishes poetry in Contemporary Haibun, Gusts, Eucalypt, and Paper Wasp.