Desolate Winter Sunday

From Count Syllables on Your Fingers, published in 2020.

Desolate Winter Sunday

Somber blue
paint on a matte sky
in windows
gone blind-eyed cloudy and dim
Small pale houses crouch

shoulders hunch
gray wind licks up leaves
Narrow street
cram-packed tight
forced friends uneasy neighbors
In bone-tired front yards

brittle stalks
dead flowers in pots
cracked ripples in a birdbath
turned broken mirror

shadorma chain

9 thoughts on “Desolate Winter Sunday

  1. Some places look better in winter and some are stripped of any warmth and life. I think that is interesting to observe. This poem was written about a neighborhood near me where I pass through in all seasons. It looks extra tired in winter all right, but never happy. I reflect on how place develop a personality of their own never mind who lives there, and they seem to retain it.

  2. I like winter myself, there are winter activities and feelings I wait for each year. But it can be hard, too, it is more demanding and harsh than the other seasons.

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