She sits beneath the apricot tree
Peppermint leaves spinning in her glass
The heat and colors of summer
Have finally arrived
But winter never seemed to leave
Cheerful pigments stain the season
All things that were once beautiful
Appear black and white
Hidden in shadow
Diagnosed in the spring
Treatment in the summer
Casket in the fall
All but one season ruined
I wish you too would love winter
Mother said
Hoping that I would feel its sharp teeth
Sink in my bare skin
And want more
I cannot write poetry
It’s a small, well-fed glory
To be as ignorant as I
In this one-person suffocating
Story.
I sit with my pen and a
Coffee in hand
And debate whether
These Sheets of Blank
Will put forth what I
Demand.
‘Fraid not, said the ink
Running down my wrist
“You have no inspiration,
motivation, or creativity
To produce any thoughts at all.”
Listening to the thick
Ooze on my desk
I blot black dots of sand
Even my psychiatrist
Would not understand.
Stumped and troubled
I crawl into bed
With the ink in my hand
And the thoughts still in my
Head.
