Spare Change

The time for frost has not arrived, the morning sunlight’s dampened by the chill of evening dew, the grass still grows though slowly now. Within, chill copper pipes ping, once again breaking the silence of night. The field mice come unwelcomed to their winter nests inside my walls. Morning glories, mere days ago abundant now shiver in the shade. Dropped seed must wait until the springtime’s sun to rise, to grow. Clothes in closets all packed high, shelves to ceiling, must topple down. Release the felted wool, the flannel bright, the knitted sweaters of Iona. The pumpkins wait impatiently upon a field of green, crisped, vines. Still connected to the prickling twine and fan like leaves, the blossoms fail. And, I reflect within a picture perfect room, of what has been and what is. The light of day’s a graying tone of mourning, whose length slowly fades away. First Published in Eunoia 4/6/14