Night of the freezing rain

(after sorting through revisions from years of writing) What is it that I have said? I've unraveled words like knitting I could never get right, pulling out and re-forming, again and again. Looking back over words, I want to see a blue bowl on a white table, a ceramic pitcher of water with glazed yellow iris blooming on the sides. A table that looks like a blessing. Under the streetlamp, the peach tree is amber glass and holds a million droplet lights. I can't believe its beauty, the street blacker under the sheen, the stillness lifted from some windless, glacial place. Having come out to these boughs and walkways glazed in ice, I stand looking up at the frozen lights. How is it I expect at any moment warm drops on my bare hands?

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK