Ice Floe

Shadow, the skeleton of a tree in winter spreads and stretches across a sun-filled plane

Or is that plain, exposed and revealed the thin branches and limbs of a naked Norwegian Maple

Mocked by the English Holly with it’s tiny barbs and rotund form sitting solid and stoic

Aged cheddar on a twice baked potato served with smoked salmon and asparagus drizzled with bechemel, serving for one

The sheets are fresh clean from the laundry smells faintly of lavender and vanilla two pillows for one head

Small bottles filled with the helpers of men in long white coats and stethoscopes sit like soldiers waiting on call to battle

A certain tightness and lack of mobility in an aging machine which cannot be oiled like a clock

Vision blurred by strain glaces at the familiar objects around the room weary and worn dull aching pain

reach for the bottles or reach for the glass, the water wins again but the soldiers stand ever ready with their lethal force a battle they will fight from within

Perhaps it is the subtle reminder of ice floating in my glass that the Inuit have a history which answers these unspoken pleas with numbing elegance.

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