out my window


I’m finding it hard to want

what is out my window, the soggy smear

of a worn-out season. Last week’s rare snow

and ice have retreated

to only the deepest ditches, revealing all our secrets:

bare places in last summer’s weedy lawn,

the last skeletons of hydrangea, even the faithful rosemary

is winter-weary now.

I was too warm  in my sleep, tangled in kicked-off comforter,

twisted quilt. February is the color of mud,

sounds like the hiss and sigh of tires on wet pavement.

I lift my eyes, and the stark unburdened branches

promise to write a new story, their tips

drip down something like hope,

swell beneath their bark with something like promise.


Seeking midwinter inspiration with other good folks

writing along in February at Write ALM


6 thoughts on “out my window

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