November 7, 2013

The wind blusters.

The clouds are gray.

I shiver in my coat,

     yank on my hat,

          wish I'd thought to bring a scarf.

The mittens I wear are mismatched

     pink and white

and belong to one

     (perhaps both)

of my daughters.

The dog,

     I notice,

          has chewed a hole

into one thumb.

I step into the woods,

     head for the creek.

The water has risen in the rain.

I toe across flat and mossy rocks

     carefully,

          tentatively,

               trying to keep my feet dry.

I pass the bridge.

     The owl's nest.

          The fallen tree.

               And emerge.

No fishermen are at the lake

     today: The icy wind has chased them away,

          empty bait containers,

               a forgotten lure

     the only evidence that

          they were here a day ago.

The pair of ducks is gone as well,

     the widening v they cut into the calm and

          still water ripped and rippled away by the wind.

The heron, too, has disappeared,

     the bird with two grey feathers missing

     from its left wing.

     Sentenced to flights

          short and low, his feet skirt the trees as he passes

overhead.

Today, I round the lake

     alone.

          Grateful for the sudden

          appearance of the sun that

               warms my back,

   

reminding me of

     hot mugs of tea

          and the soup I have

simmering on the stove,

     a mishmash of things left over,

unedited words

     strung together

          and stirred

               and bubbled

in hopes that they'll collaborate and decide to coalesce

     into something

          of meaning.

This was written for this week's Write at the Merge prompt: "The third day comes a killing frost." ~William Shakespeare

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

I Jump

I jump

to conclusions

when I see you

with the lipstick-stained handkerchief.

Or is it blood?

You stand

at the bathroom sink,

water on low,

scrubbing the stain

with a bar of soap.

I pick

up the soap

and wash my hands.

Blood on your hands.
Blood on my hands, too.


This was linked up for this weekend's Trifecta Writing Challenge.  A poem in 33 words, three lines, or three stanzas.

Roses in December

“Roses for sale five dollars a bunch.”  The hand-lettered sign proclaims from his station across the street from the local train depot where weary travelers head to work in a blur of colors and odors.  He’s there still for the five o’clock rush, patient with his flowers, pacing off the cold, a steaming cup of coffee warming his hands.

Even on Sunday, he huddles beneath his beach umbrella as we cross the tracks late for church, cursing the signal lights and the candy cane arm that swings down before us.  A driver slows and waits by the side of the road for The Rose Man to dash up with a bouquet before speeding away at the last second.

I acknowledge The Rose Man with a nod of my head as the train blasts through.  He looks me in the eye; refuses my sympathy.  Thickened stems caress crumpled bills through fingerless gloves.  "Where can he find roses in December?" I ask as the candy cane arm lifts and we proceed to church, passing him again on the way after.  I put my hand to the glass, little fingerprints reaching out but not quite touching the lovely snowman as he sells his wares on a frosty December Sunday.

This was from a larger poem, written several years ago.  I edited it for this week's Write on Edge prompt.