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elizabeth-balisePoems
Tired clot of night in the moon’s slight of hand in the moon’s slight— place to hang my hat.... Winter clouds come tumbling toward the gray Raked clean by barren trees Yard waits with its leaves tucked in corners by the wind along hedges, stairways mingling with renegade trash Stuffed in layers like elderly keepsakes for— no one cares... My yard—a neglect of winter woods but for towels waving stiffly on the line and the squealing crackle of my footsteps— Being there Stairs sigh differently coming home Blind search for a key hole I could die searching! the frustrations of the blind the fumblings of “locked out!” I— know where to go.... Pretend in my warm lonely fling—mittens on the table Survey the ***** dishes...and close my eyes
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Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
Sigh Differently
Tired clot of night in the moon’s slight of hand in the moon’s slight— place to hang my hat.... Winter clouds come tumbling toward the gray Raked clean by barren trees Yard waits with its leaves tucked in corners by the wind along hedges, stairways mingling with renegade trash Stuffed in layers like elderly keepsakes for— no one cares... My yard—a neglect of winter woods but for towels waving stiffly on the line and the squealing crackle of my footsteps— Being there Stairs sigh differently coming home Blind search for a key hole I could die searching! the frustrations of the blind the fumblings of “locked out!” I— know where to go.... Pretend in my warm lonely fling—mittens on the table Survey the ***** dishes...and close my eyes
There's been nothing but wind and cold for several days here. Makes me think of January, almost, when walking in snow below 10 degrees F actually does squeal and squeak. We're getin' there.
Written by
elizabeth-balise
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
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