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 and, in her imagination, from the shores of Crater Lake, Oregon. Her poems and micro-fiction are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Eunoia Review, Califragile, Blast Furnace Press, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, among others. She is hopeful for November 2020.