Not Quite Yet
by Frances FlatleyDecember 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.
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