Meg E. Ready
So this is what you call a snow storm,
the scent of basted barbeque
wafting through your eyelashes like
blinds half open.
The overemphasis of ellipsis
and the mildly uncomplicated nodding of
Ashen chalk on each unassuming fingertip
like the illusion of cinders on bleached logs,
laced with cocked heads and impish eyes.
Peering into silence while
scribbling whole hearted wisdom
laid plainly, a tempered glass on a
It’s whiskey flooded rim revealing
condensation from starlings.
Speckled oak giving into the harmony of jaybirds,
striated by the jerking of ink
washing over into every page.
Vacant lines satisfied.
All I remember is the gratification of
frost on pages,
exhilarated with prior satiation and
remarking sharply like magic.
Recollection diluted in sepia tone.
I thought we had more time to
self edit the endings.
Flakes of snow collide and shatter,
confused they attend to one another
leading one another into a turbine
like screws into stain glass,
grating against saints
who refuse to lend an ear.
Tea bags steeped in bourbon
while yellowing correspondence
makes peace with rainwater and
the survival of abandoned ambitions.
Now all that’s left are
memories like a sinking ship
succumbing to the bowing arms of the sea.