At The Kettle Pond

For a brief moment, I am a water lily,
Or perhaps one of those tall narrow reeds
That sway in the cool summer breeze.

I sit in the shallow water.
A dragon fly lands on my back;
Iridescent blue or fiery red.

At my feet, the fish gather
To cautiously check out
This strange new object in their pond.

I am very still
As they timidly approach
And nibble at my toes.

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Yankee Sunbathing

Under a pile of blankets
I lie on the couch
as the sun reflects
on the surrounding snow
through the living room window.

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My lungs ache, they burn from the coughing.
The pressure in my head grows, it feels like it will explode.
The sinus infection has expanded to include bronchitis.

Who will deliver me from my distress?

At the pharmacy, I struggle to find enough money for my medicine.
At home, sleep evades me as I wait for the drugs to take effect.
The weariness of my bones seeps into my soul.

At The Funeral Home

There is something wrong with the air.
It feels heavy.
It sits awkwardly in my mouth, my throat, my lungs.
I cannot breathe.

There is something wrong with the air.
It stings my eyes.
I look around frantically for a glimmer of hope or joy.
I cannot see.

There is something wrong with the air
It clogs my ears.
I listen numbly for the sound of laughter,
But hear only crying.

It isn’t the fragrance of the flowers.
It isn’t the dim light illuming the coffin.
It is the emptiness
Knowing a friend is gone.

The Christmas Tree

The large green tree
waits patiently
next to the growing pile of wrapped Christmas presents,
the dust covered boxes of last year’s ornaments,
and the couch, where the college student,
home for the holidays,
lays half delirious,
from this season’s stomach bug.

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