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. Her poetry and short fiction has been seen in Off The Coast Literary Magazine, Blast Furnace Press, Pacifica Poetry Review, Here/There, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia, Califragile, and Seattle Poetry Bus. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, "Last Note" in 2019.