Winter is a banquet table
after a feast––
the poverty of empty grapevine trees.
The sky, a white cloth napkin,
stained and folded clumsily
smells of autumn's drippings.
Yes, what is left is of little note––
power line bones of a fine roast,
a faint amber glows overhead,
the last few sips of a fine Qvevri
left in the wineglass for dead.
And the wax from stubby candlestick,
froze as it dripped,
thick frost on the kitchen windowsill.
I wipe it clean to notice
a front yard shrub has started to show
with baby's breath,
and the fresh snow globes
remind me that all in good time,
what has been depleted
will be refreshed.
© 2024 | K.F. Hartless
Cover Art: Photograph by Marcus Nilsson for The New York Times
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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