she was not broken
The fog lifted–
like a web across my sleeping eyes
it crawled away in slow motion
leaving a snail’s trail of wispy melancholia.
The sun sets on the tracks turning them into straight
lines of salmon steel reflecting the day’s end.
We pause at that inverted “v” where perspective
tricks us into thinking we’ve come such a very long way.
That moment on a frigid day
when February’s sun stretches–
touching the drifting snows
and the running river waters
with an embrace of a long-lost friend.
laughing on a road trip
used bookstores and coffee
walks with binoculars
cold Guinness and friends
hearts painted on bricks
puppies and naps
hawks on the light posts
sleeping with open windows
Sunset in early February reflects
a warm glow upon sheets of river ice.
Nostalgic for spring, I keep the balcony door
open until the sun disappears completely.