Winter evening repast

the moon is waning and wet weather this way comes
Pork chops fresh from the brine glisten invitingly;
No notion brews for the poor little cutlets
That they are to meet a fiery
And delicious end

apple crisp gurgles and wafts cinnamon
from the oven
and asparagus spears snuggled in prosciutto
stoically bides  time in the fridge
their blanching now complete

Balsamic vinegar stands at attention
and ground pepper lightly dusts
the spear headed vegetables
like an early winter flurry

My glass of wine calls to be refilled
while the waning moon hides among mist covered stars
As dinner is served, I think to myself
Winter does not suck.


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