Summer is golden
butterscotch, January
skim milk, thin weak pale.
Winter sun
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Summer is golden
butterscotch, January
skim milk, thin weak pale.
Forgotten summer
umbrella aged by winter’s
wig of heavy snow.
Ate bad stuff. Gained weight.
Hate myself. Still, I think, There’s
always tomorrow…
Kitchen windows fogged,
oven-baked chicken is the
scent of homecoming.
Shivering at the
airport. Colder than O’Hare.
Turn back, refund flight.
Bright summer days no
friend to sadness. Solace lies
in winter’s dark chill.
She spent the day in
aisle 6, cold flu remedies,
wellness boxed, bottled.
Spiraling flakes, like
small hands opening wide, feel
their way down to earth.
Where did they go? Wake.
Eat. Work. Pay bills. Each the same.
Days blink by, all gone.
Earthy smell of fresh
mud awakens winter-dulled
senses like coffee.