The Burnt End of a Stick
December 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
She wiped the cold glass with her scarf.
If she pressed her face hard against
The front side of the mirror,
She could see him far off in her peripheral vision,
Outlining something with the burnt end of a stick.
That night, in the road that ran by her porch
She noticed a neat but confused-looking package.
As she bent to inspect it,
Snowflakes billowed out of the wrappings.
She found a smudged black drawing inside.
She just had time to recognize
The unmistakable shape of a pine cone
Before the trembling paper vanished into the empty fog.