Stood by the window
in the heart of the glare,
her feet bare
on the cold floor,
with a much colder stare,
there she is.

never out of words
on days it's his breath
taken away,
what else is to expect
from someone right out of
a Shakespearean play,
there she is.

Dressed in blood red
one day she'll wed,
he hangs by a thread,
the clocks may run out
he'll never be done,
every thousandth look
is the same as the first one,
there she is.

Her hair burned a radiant red
The curls wrapped around my heart

Stars always became tangled in her hair when she played in the sky.
They twinkled like glitter on her skin when she stood beneath the red, hot sun and glowed in the darkness of his shadow.

I draw with silver 'till it turns red
Not on surface, but in depth
I draw in time, in life, in motion
I draw in pain and create art

-

an icicle broke off from
the gutter of my porch,

stabbing my hydrangea
bush right in the heart.

i could reprimand the
shattered remains of an
icy spear,

and then bandage the
wound with a layer
of snow–

yet it occurs to me to maybe
quarter an apple with a
Swiss Army knife,

this pooling of thoughts like
pale blood seeping out of a
painfully frozen morning—

turning me white like
heavy frost over
so many early roses...


s jones
2021


.

The rose,
Staid on the porch rail,
Was forbidden in the parlor.
First frost arrived,
Enrobing petals in velvet,
Crimson thick and skin softened,
Bewildering. Those who stroll by
Behold,
But not take —

Who could handle
The scentless spectacle
Spoiling inside?

A private decay in a white blanket tomb,
A fading in a deafened hollow.
Next year the neighbor will plant
New roses to surrender.