Yard Sale of Thoughts

The romance of a frozen fountain
is soon forgotten
when shovel thrusts ‘gainst forlorn,
browbeat ground.

My holly bush,
too prickly to be touched,
though much admired,
a sanctuary round.

And in the face of atrocities,
I must carry grace fluidly:

wear the apron o’er the gown.

Walk the pathways
through the graveyard garden
crunching nary a blade,
forehead meekly bowed.

For January is a knife at the throat,
ready to leave us all injured,
exposed.

And while the birch trees have been reborn
by December’s alicorn,
I am nothing more than stinging cheeks
and prickly toes.

As branches reach their empty fingers
towards the well-attired sky,
I, too panhandle
for a safe place
to repose.

In sickly sunlight, I search for change.

The ability to make good on winter’s campaigns
without complaint.

But, I am not as patient
as the rose.

January finds me at the perihelion of my restraint,
hand on hoe.

©2025 | K. F. Hartless

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Join me next month in penning something personal and vibrant inspired by February girl from the 1896 calendar of Eugène Grasset.