Almost the rain like Ireland

Almost the rain like Ireland as if there were a dirt lane lead down to the lake of fairy sighs strung like vertical pearls a mist rising a silence of swans broken by small woodland birds come to flirt among briar's still bare. The snow drops bloom like small stars bright on slender green so tender primrose cowslip daffodil cannot be far away. But now coffee's ready  some when I pour and hissed complaints I must go tend to spill some when i pour and small terriers black and brown, tabby cats and winter horses on the island distract my thoughts almost scald myself forgetting the pressure and steam when prepping the next cup, for Michelle. So now mill town of my birth dawn. Connecticut ruins of over taxed former industrialist empty factory town. Here we are on the outskirts, half hour drive to work. Here we are making money for high rent poor food and tickets "home" for as close as we can afford it Christmas. We have no terrier or cats and horses are a gone thin smoke distant dream. But sometimes there are whitetail deer poke around the old apple trees out the back of our rented house. One night recently a fox left foot prints in the snow circling the house kept to the side walk until crossing his own trail veered off into the filed of abandoned farmland.