Somewhere, Marcus, somewhere in a really big closet, smelling of cinnamon and mothballs and last year, blankets of snow are unfolding themselves, preparing to cover the feet of the earth. You can hear the cold in the gloaming, its shoes crackling on the russet quatrains of fall.
There’s poetry here too, where it cannot snow, where the choices are either heat or rain, where a languid warmth curls around stray thoughts that linger in the afternoon haze.
The heart is a restless bird, constantly singing for a new sky. In a monochrome tedium, words stick together and stale poems flatten against the roof of your mouth.
But colour is only a state of mind, the most vibrant dawn can look like yesterday’s orangeade stain, a muddy reminder of unspent darkness.
Feel the wind Marcus, I predict grey rain tonight.
an iridescent wing
slices the horizon
quickly she hides a smile