I wrote you yesterday, just a note
on the back of an envelope, the bleak
paper shining white like the pocked moon.
I remember in summer, watching the moon
set with you, waiting as the sky blued and the first note
of birdsong made the world seem a little less bleak.
Birds lie, though. The earth is barren and bleak
as the sky where useless clouds gather to protest the moon.
I threw away the note.
This tritina brought to you courtesy of the YW December poetry slam. If you want three words for a tritina, get thee to the coffeehouse. Mine were moon, note, and bleak, from Stacie, Christine, and Cynthia.
It wasn’t the way you asked me, the twinkle
in your eye or the way the logs flared red
when you crumpled paper and thrust it between them into the fire.
I didn’t stay for the Norman Rockwell child on his sled
running up a hill beneath the snowy eaves, or for the icicles
which hung from your gutters waiting for spring’s shuddering glide. Continue reading