Yard Sale of Thoughts

I stare at a postcard,

recently arrived,

snow parachuting from

the frosty sky; brave soldiers,

most of which will die

battling warmth,

outnumbered by battalions of concrete,

infantries of inert grass.

Frozen little pricks,

they swarm thick in the leavened bread dough sky,

but eventually flicker past.

Outside, the morning ball

of red yarn is quickly darned

by street light needles:

a day being knit.

The only sunrise here, reflection:

flash of lemon in a crystal glass.

The only snow, a glossy postcard,

with a handwritten back:

Seasons Greetings Dearest,

in a script I can’t forget.

Wow, these squalls do damage fast;

words read aloud

before being trashed.

Holidays are the worst.

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

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