Dark heap on the snow where a squirrel husked a walnut.
Scent of Pine-sol lingering in rooms not yet filled.
Half a pair of chopsticks hidden in the knife drawer.
Garden rake on a store shelf of soil cultivators.
Vent hole beneath the eaves through which the house might breathe.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Stage Directions
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song