The day is grey and overcast,
Rain drizzles down the windows at a sloth like pace
Fog mists over the vast green carpet of lawn
Weaving its tendrils to the lake resting at its edge
Brushing away the last lingering vestiges of warm summer days
Spent on its shores listening to the gentle lapping of the waves.
Wes lights a fire in the fieldstone fireplace
In an effort to chase away the damp and dank,
The fireplace is as old as the country farmhouse
Made of fieldstones gathered over one hundred years ago
It is great enough to walk around and sit in
Taking up an entire wall.
In the kitchen I prepare thick French Toast
Dripping with fresh country butter and warm pure Vermont maple syrup
Smothered in powdered sugar.
While country bacon sizzles a pan
Homemade hot chocolate waits in giant sized mugs
Floating marshmallow islands swimming kissing the brims.
In the living room - emanating from the stereo
Are the soft silky sounds of smoky jazz.
Wes enters the kitchen to help carry out breakfast
I hand him the plates and grab the cocoa.
We curl up, snuggled together on the large over stuffed sofa
Finding everything we need in the nearness of each other and our warm embraces
The embraces of friends, lovers, comrades, brothers-in-arms.
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