Bright autumn moon.
Pond snails crying
in the saucepan.
Issa
Day Forty-Six
That dog doesn’t drive,
but, head out the window, he
imagines he does.
Day Forty-Five
Twenty rambling kids
came down like chattering birds
on the Starbucks staff.
Day Forty-Four
The sound of reverse—
tires spinning feckless on ice—
started our snow day.
Day Forty-Three
The snow they foretold
came—tiny icy blossoms—
and, landing, vanished.
Later it laid a blanket
down in the back yard and slept.
Day Forty-Two
Come dusty and black
out of a shivering night
she mews for supper.
Day Forty-One
The chill slips inside
and wraps its hands ‘round my feet,
then naps in my bed.
Day Forty
The cold swallows up
the cat. She’s missing all day.
Materialize.
Day Thirty-Nine
The people are warm
inside Joe’s coffee. Me, too—
inside my mocha.
Day Thirty-Eight
Winter’s here in bed
wrapped around my feet, while you
scratch inside the walls.
(Day number corrected to account for error weeks ago.)
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