Platitude

Waiting for checks in the mail

as the wind whimpers through the vacant wood stove

and shards of glass accumulate at my bare feet. 

Ice clinging to my jowls 

and holly berries hugging my breast, 

I ache for the security of a steaming cup and

a crisp newspaper. 

From the mantle, a thundering clock 

fragments the pastoral silence. 

Twelve months slip into a silvery pond,

and I can only but hope to see them

in my ashen reflection. 

 
Poem by V. Wasylak

Featured in Basement Babes, Issue 14