December 8

comment 1
poetry

Blink and it’s gone
the gingko bare, not golden

any old tree now
another bleak gray day

could be any Northern city
really from this low height

every houseplant
shoved up by the window

for the the briefest glimpse
of light, probably too cold

and dry for the orchid
but mild discomfort

soft complaint
that’s how you know

you’re alive
the crepe jasmine

that never unfurls
its blooms,

waiting for something
that never

arrives, sometimes
it hurts to look at it

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