Don’t you remember
the day it froze,
nothing in the pantry
but oranges?
We broke the ice
crust on top of the
morning’s snow, ate it
in slices like bread.
Everything tastes
out of season now,
and there are hunched
little women outside,
scattering handfuls of blue
salt onto the street.
In another pastoral,
they are peasants
feeding geese, and you
would laugh at me
for writing this down.
My footsteps are louder
with you gone. If you
receive this in time,
come back.
I’ll be waiting by the stained
glass windows.
Originally published: Winter 2010
Euphony Journal 