It’s odd to think of early March in October,
with the inevitable snap of wind, clutch
of snow, slick of ice, pit of evening
starting at 5 & staring at me
through frost-webbed
window corners—
with all that
ahead of me.

Right now, the harvest moon is heady,
& I dream of witches waltzing
under ripe leaves, of vintage
tablecloths boasting sharp
black cats, of ravens
with jagged neck
feathers as they
squawk through
husky throats.

So why am I pondering March?
Perhaps because I remember
my end-of-winter altar—

blue glass decanter sitting
in window & echoing
winter sky’s stretch
of crystal clarity,

amber bowl filled with
carnations the color
of clouds lit by
a thin sun,

canvas parasol growing
electric red poppies
with sun singing in
their bowl centers,
blueberries ready
to anoint lips

grandfather’s rosewood
violin, reminder of
bare trees waiting
for spring’s rosin
to play them
into bloom.

~inspired by Edith Elizabeth Pijpers’ “Still Life with Parasol at Wintry Window”    

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