Frost everywhere this morning; those roses never knew when to quit.
Look at their withered petals, like peering into
my own face.

I’m inside this watering can with the spiders,
the deadness. As if something’s
coiled inside me.

When I close my eyes, I’m dancing.

Faucet handle screeches, and a horn
—- jumps!
in my ear
like Livery Stable Blues.

Old Victrola,
a slice of burnt cherry pie.

We’re young such a short time.
Old until we die.

Three months until spring.

My last, I think.

Selected byMaria Mazzenga
Image credit:Michael Dziedzic

Trish Saunders writes from Seattle and Honolulu. After working as a journalist and freelance writer and editor, she began composing poems and short fiction as her NY resolution for 2014. She has work published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia, Califragile, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, and other places. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, Last Note, in 2019.