A Snowy Night
Poetry
I stop to wipe up the smoked maple syrup`
and cracked black pepper,
next to the cinnamon and an expired jar of ashes,
on a top sequestered shelf,
hidden behind the stash
of pungent magic mushrooms and copper pennies
no one wants,
and the fancy teacups no one drinks from.
I rinse the sweetly soaked terry dishcloth,
and pour myself some cognac, a swollen shot of baptismal dreams
and velvet crushed fingers
soothing my withered skin,
as daylight loses its cachet
when dirty stained-glass windows fade to grey.
The snow is banging against the shutters,
like a ghost speeding down the highway,
an exhausted neighbor on foot trods my way,
both of us willing to trade quilted parkas for warm brandy or chardonnay’s chambré.
I try to peel the cast of winter from my face
and breathe the diaphanous air translucent,
full of promise, etched in grace, exhaling in the moment,
my crinkled lashes caked golden like the memories I own,
nestled in my igloo feeling safe and warm,
as I bury my embedded thoughts
so deep and dark inside
the womb of winter’s snowy night.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
