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 poetry and short fiction has been in Visual Verse, The American Journal of Poetry, Rye Whiskey Review, Pacifica Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Off The Coast Literary Review, and others. She lives in Seattle.