No. 3. (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Safeway, parking lot, 5:25 p.m.

By Hannah Six

An achingly cold January evening--

frigid, though, thankfully,

no ice on the potholed gravel pavement.

The slice and tang of ice in my nose

snaps, like whiplash,

forcing my attention

through a

narrowing

scope

to that moment when I--

groceries stowed, hatchback firmly latched closed--

pause.

A summer-lover by nature, I have,

with some effort (born of a certain brand of seasonal desperation)

trained my eye to forage

for random, tender bits of beauty

among the long, barren, leafless eastern winters...

So that now, glancing up, I am taken

by the way those stark Maple branches, silhouetted in black against

the remnants of sunset,

criss-cross the horizon,

clipping the bruised sky into gradient ribbons 

of magenta, of rose, of clementine,

and (yes) lime green,

through ever-deepening hues of 

velvety Prussian and sapphire blue.

My fingers curl against the

pleasantly scratchy wool mitts I knitted last April.

Venus teases and blinks.

I smile, and hunch my shoulders 

against an onslaught of shivers.

Then, with a premonition of distant nostalgia,

I tuck this moment away for safekeeping,

and turn toward home.

No. 3. (NaPoWriMo 2013)