Latest poem for my Starving Writer Survival Fund.
The crisp cold air of the early morning stirs you awake,
Nipples crackle frost-like while you pull on your sweater.
The fire has smoldered to embers,
Wood chips and sticks stoke it back into being.
Iron skillet held over the fire,
The crack of the eggshell,
The sizzle of the bacon,
Bread burnt in the open flame.
Eggs, Bacon, Burnt toast. Deliciousness.
Washed down with cool refreshing spring water.
The Good start to a brand new day.
Camping is a Dream.
Only thing better is…
Waking to Room Service in a Five Star Hotel.
(On second thought, you can keep your Great Outdoors.)