Yard Sale of Thoughts

February drifts deep,
full moon beats in my chest;
I work without sleep.

The heart a wine bowl,
an offering of the gods
I'm told,
but the bouquet makes 
my stomach weak.

The days, the weeks,
snowball.
In the wee hours, I weep;
my sheets in clods.

I'll bite off half
the white hilly pill
on high:
my heart and mind at odds.

Father sky, 
far from clear:

the year's first squall.

© 2026 | K.F. Hartless

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