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yellow moss
December 6, 2019
she sits in the lazy mist,
the light from the kitchen
sends beams of orange light
like dabbled light between the fingers
of the leaved trees
the clouds rest pregnant in the sky,
grey,
uninviting.
it holds a knife
to the stomach of
mine, fingers long, longer
than the lifeless willow
branches,
eyes distant
and bloodied,
cold.
it is cold out here, you know.
your charm can’t keep you warm.
© Brynne L., Williamsburg, VA
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