winter rarely talks
though she raged last night
outside my window
what can a wounded
earth say if not with
the wind’s voice?
but this morning
on our daily walk
it’s the leaves still
hanging on the trees
and my mom’s shuffle
at 96 I notice
stubborn fates
entwined out of season
and the coming moment
of a fall from grace
sitting in Elmer’s stirring through welcomes and quick catching up with friends I peruse the menu and take a sip crystals lay on the bottom of the glass so I stir some more my drink now a murky snow
I apologize if you’re looking for campfire stories and not this twisted art of over-the-top descriptions and mirroring metaphors every poet wants a rapt reader a syllabic sleuth to follow the clues
guess I need to buy a flag that can only be raised half-mast one that comes doubled-knotted mid rope or maybe a half flag I can pull up full mast perhaps it should have 50 bullets instead of stars