Dear aromatic cup of French roast for which drinking is meant,

You may as well be at the opposite end of an arpent—

For sipping you would require both raising and tilting the head,

Which is currently glued to snoozes a la dead lead on bed. ; )

Upon eve’s snowy esses,

Senses see what seem to be ice-blinks—

House-like lights guiding skating wheels—

Homeward bound via gelid rinks. ; )

Rebuffs stithy heart’s defenses,

As iciness becomes expected.

Then, a wave, instead of crashing,

Strokes hope—

Melting will back into wonder. ; )

Paws pause by hot tin roof.

Mews pipe at sham of meerschaum.

Cats fever over scratched red match.

But, felines purr upon cool car’s whir. ; )

Trudgen’s kick does fly,

Not across the sky,

But with heart on fire,

And race to the wire,

Winner needs what works,

Like matter’s sparked perks. ; )