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

conciliatory delight.

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

dilapidated barstool.

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

concise summary,

succinct greetings,

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.