With exhaustion’s heavy fog rolling thick against the day, it is too much to find the lines of the perimeters I am expected to seal. Then comes a dovetail reversal. Fever burns a midday sun’s cruel brilliance, blinding against the snow. The long melt follows but still not the lines. Hands defy the premise of trespass, insisting. Here is no territory, but soil.
You ask where the time is going. I can’t answer. Someone calls, inside! I look to where we came from, and the door stands ajar, its half-open hesitancy hiding some threshold creature, looking back.
For whom I, on the other side of its pause, must be another threshold creature, looking back.
9 thoughts on “Weathers”
“Threshold creature”—love it.
Thank you! : ) Now that it’s wiggled into my mind, I am seeing these everywhere.
“Exhaustion’s heavy fog.” Alas… I know this all too well. And it’s not even 9am…
I know! Someone drank my coffee but it can’t have been me, because I still don’t feel it : )
🤣 they’ve been making the rounds. Mine’s empty too!
That’s a very beautiful poem and I love the first sentence. The photo you chose is great.
Thomas, thank you : )
Very intriguing! And thought provoking. Your choice of image really gets inside the poetry.
Chris, thank you!