Things I Don’t Say

This time of day,

this golden cast light of

low-slung cold sun

The author, breathing in the snow and golden light. Photo cred: self.

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