Blue Mountain Arts Poetry Contest

Not Quite Yet
by Frances Flatle

Fourteenth Contest
third Place

December is gone.
The tree leans unadorned against the back porch,
discarded in the snow,
underneath a full moon
and a solitary star.

I close the door
and set the tea to brew
then pull a book of poems
I know he never liked
from a freshly polished shelf.

I snuggle in 
my new reclining chair,
so soft and warm
I could nearly lose myself
in the friendly warmth of it.

The chair is sandy brown,
almost, I think,
the color of his hair.
I cannot think of him
and breathe at the same time.
Not quite yet.

But the tea is hot and strong,
a momentary comfort
and merciful distraction
from a memory or two
that has caught me unaware.

These things happen, I know.
Despite my good intentions
or the warmth of my recliner,
I cannot fool my heart.

I wander off
back into the kitchen
to look out my window.
And I see the snow is draping
the tree I had abandoned
in a white and glistening gown.

More beautiful than ever,
she bows below the moonlight
beneath ten thousand stars.

I stand in awe
and find the sudden courage 
to inhale.