Siberian Sunday
Come inside, place your palm like a quiet vow on the blessing of the nearest wall where the torn join of the pattern is familiar. Ease off wellingtons while the bare arms of trees shed Winter blossom, carelessly casting off their lean coldness in sheets of flickering snow, they cannot wait to let it go, watch it dissipate across blank fields where small birds hop their criss-cross codes, soon erased by softly shifting loads. Hinges sing and sigh, demented wind chimes clatter, as we fling off corkscrewed hats, regard ourselves in glass that’s spiked and frozen, return at last to a room full of scent, the almost spent bloom of Hyacinth.
Tina Cole, Creative Countryside Magazine, Issue 8, Winter 2019.
