Wasted Day

I slept way past noon
on another Saturday.
I should have
complained about it being wasted.

I wanted to clean the house,
write some poetry,
cook dinner.

I sat down at the computer,
the way I all too frequently do.
A pop up message came,
from my neighbor 'bluetoo.'
"Have you seen the snow?
There is more than
the October storm already."

I looked out the door,
at the snow that rounded edges
and made all tranquil,
soft, quiet, and muted.

I slept in way past noon
on another Saturday.
I should have
complained about wasted time.

I put on boots,
jacket, hat, gloves, scarf
and started out
to take some pictures.

Rabbits ran from beneath
snow laden bushes.
Birds fluttered
from their sanctuary
under abandoned
and rusted farm equipment,
as I clicked away
with my little camera.

I trudged along
and kicked through snow,
until I got to the store
for bread, pretzels, and movies.

My face slowly warmed.
I noticed the burning
on my cheeks
and thought
how like Robert Frost,
I had miles to go before
returning home.

I wandered out the door,
bag in hand,
camera in my pocket,
looking for more
photo opportunities
on my way home.

I slept in way past noon.
It was another Saturday.
How could I complain
about time so nobly wasted?