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Archive for February, 2020

Prose Poetry

Four haikus

The fine snowflakes
On the glass become wet drops.
The wiper flicks them away.

One red car alone
Sits peering over the drop,
Ponders jumping in.

Gray mist drains color
The void is wet, too cold for
Hateful, hardy geese.

Must be quiet here!
But the study area
Holds a ticking clock.

Observation

Monday mornings are library writing days. Today was dismal, dark. The finest snowflakes fall as I head out. On the glass, they become wet drops. The wiper flicks them away. I head into the study room. “You must be quiet here!” the door sign warns. But the library study room holds a ticking clock. It is a great, gold-faced grandfather perhaps a donation from a patron out of time.

I look out the window across the catch basin pond. The gray mist drains all color. It seems too dismal for the hardy, honking geese. They are absent. One red car sits, looking over the drop does it ponder jumping?

I Am

Lost in familiar places. Walking down halls that seem known but…
Something is wrong. The light is strange, tinting the paint an otherworldly hue.
There are no doors leading to rooms or escape. There is just the straight walk into darkness.

The walls disappear and I am out in a field in twilight dark, no orange rosy sunset here. No electric lights. I hear crickets chirp, an insistent hungry mosquito whine, and the overhead black flapping of a night feeder. There could be snakes lying in the thick tall grass.

Down a slope, the woods beckon, siren song leading me to bears! Robbers! Faeries dancing around a golden flame to cast a spell upon an interloper. The unknown whispered words of the wind in the pines, calling my name.

Lost, never to be awakened.

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