For the dverse prompt.
Sadness of a cold morning washes in waves
of olive green about the kitchen,
and the bright spark of the gas flame is
the one eye open to the world.
Beyond the window, trees bare branches
in the ice blue wind from the east that strips
the bloody drops of leaves, tosses them into
the icefloes of the flowing green sea,
while I clutch my coffee cup, sip the purple heat,
feel it fierce as orange claws and listen
for the robin singing in the oak tree,
singing the great golden flood of bird happiness.