Winters Cutting Edge

The porch-potted have attenuated into stick insects. Geraniums are hallowed be dark moons, Fragility turns to desiccation. The red tin watering can is iced over by a fallen sun. Of a sudden, a yawning dawn freezes, is pinned to a fixed grimace. Unlock the front door, push a grudging frosted screen. Slipper bound toes shrink back, blood drops through ice holes in arterial walls. Tropical fruits uneaten, beds unmade and cooling, cat hiding under a throw rug, just its tail flicking a weather warning. Slap and lock the door, ignore the creaking porch as it were a gutted grave. Upon a kitchen wall eyes trace a diminishing light, a trace that once was a warming ray, now has congealed into a fingerbone of yesterday.