November Time Slip
It snowed last night;
taking out the trash,
there I am, dozing in a garden swing set
deep within July.
It could be another year.
July in a London park
lying next to her,
wisps of gentleness in a public place,
dandelion seeds parachuting upwards.
Snow falls onto my eyelids.
The trash I am hefting
is from Madrid
there are straw hats and the ruins
of several cathedrals in it.
It should be heavier
but the Iberian condors add a weightlessness
to all things too heavy to bear
across a snowy backyard asphalt.
Chill bones rattle on the swing set,
icicles weep from its wrought iron frame.
She is singing in the kitchen,
coral lips savoring what she has yet to cook.
A skein of geese are crossing over
heaped frozen spires.
Summer shorts and a T
rustle in a summer breeze, then freeze.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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