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.

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