Things I Don’t Say
--
This time of day,
this golden cast light of
low-slung cold sun
steeps me in
melancholy.
I breathe, eyeing the
pruned back
hydrangea,
now bare,
gray-brown sticks.
The phone rings,
and the sound of your
voice, far away,
trembles with
tears,
childlike in its
vulnerability.
Someone is dying,
reminds
us, I don’t say,
that we will
die
too.
When will the world
feel flooded with
lightness
again,
with the bright parched white of
July,
the new turquoise liner
rippling the water’s surface
in
technicolor?
Greens stems,
ripe and
bursting with
flower.
Sun sets.
A splash of
golden light
across the neighbor’s
white
clapboard siding,
a last-ditch effort.
Already, I miss
even
that.
-gae 2/9/22
— — —
Gae is the author of several novels for readers of all ages, though shelved as tween and young adult. You can read more about her and her books at gaepolisner.com
