Frost, white and silent lay
On the curled black asphalt blanket
Of shingles on my neighbor’s roof.
Below, the family lies sleeping,
While the footprints of
Of dawn trace
The minutes, the seconds,
The individual ticks
Of a clock keeping pace
With the register on my wall,
Heat covering
Me while mocking
The cold, quiet, calm crystals
Of a new morning outside my window.
—by Scott Sprunger
LANDLOCKED LYRES 