On the Terrace
The lonely breakfast table starts the day, an adjustment is made to understand why the other chair is empty. The morning beautiful and still to be, should woo me. Yet the appetite is not shared, lost somewhere in memory. How lucky the horizon is blue and needs no handwriting on its emptiness. I am written on thoroughly, a lost novel found again. I remember the predictable plot too late, realize the silly, sad urgency of moss.