Hands chilled,
I wait for the sun
to drift past
boats,
ducks,
docks,
riprap rocks,
to warm my keyboard.

As dawn comes
to a near-silent lake
(the 6:01 a.m. to Dallas flys overhead
and the first waterskiers jet out
to meet the waking,
wakeless lake),
I look at site stats.

No one viewed me today.
(She had a busy night.)
I catch up
on poetry written
but not blogged.
Yesterday’s busy sunshine
grew weeds,
lawn,
strawberry plants,
tomatoes to plant,
roses to water,
rhubarb to harvest,
and one,
lone
poem,
published a minute before
midnight.

My one-a-day
goal
remains intact,
not on purpose,
but just
in fact.

My hands remain numb
as I wait for the sun
to come.