5 PM

Wood
make my afternoons brown,
smiles at me as I make my
tea, the colour of Earth.
The cup I hold
has white borders,
transparent life-like.
Books
covered in dust
unread and impatient-
gray, like winter memories.
Sheets
newly washed, flits like a breeze-
airy, as if ideas
play cyclical games with me.
Orange red sky, dying embers
of a day well-spent.