an accumulation of wounds
a collection of injuries
scars not visible
to casual eyes
i sit on a stool
brushing my hair
snow drifts, thick
and slow past
the window
each day
the death count
rises
i am glad to be old
to not witness
what is coming
my own selfish choices
even in sleep
there is no
forgiveness
~ sharon brogan
january 02022
#poem
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How does the writer's brain work? It is a bewilderment to me, why it must be this particular word, or that particular image. How is it that now, in this time of several national and global crises, I emerge from sleep holding to this juxtaposition:
i wake
my face is wet
the blue heron stands
one foot
on a slate roof
???
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Tuesday we woke
to high lines
of snow along
the birch limbs
out our bedroom
window.
Two days later
snow has congealed
to slush balls
that fall
to the ground
with thuds.
Frost shadows
rest across grass
and asphalt. Sky
changes mood
from fog
to blue.
They are counting
votes again
in Arizona.
They will
count again
elsewhere.
The country’s
mood changes
from slush
to thud
to fog
to blue.
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As of today, 06 November 2020, I have written 10,033 words. I'm on schedule for "Just Write".
In other news, we are still pretending to not know who our next president will be.
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This is a day I did not want.
This is a day that does not keep its promise.
Today is a day of disappointment
and fear. There is blue in the sky,
but it’s pale and diffuse. I watch
my neighbors from the corners of my eyes.
This is not a valley prone to earthquakes,
but I feel unsteady anyway.
Why do I live here? Do I know you? Snow
is coming. I fear we will be buried.
~sharon brogan
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