Dry hard petals of forgotten flowers,
hand pressed by the night
into colorful clay jars.

I throw a fistful of old memories on to the fire
and take warmth as the burning pages turn.

The oak table is dressed for quiet company
tho lines of lonely silhouettes form at the door
waiting for sanctuary,
solstice,
or, that lacking,
a steaming mug of hot honey tea.

Accompanied only by the patient ministry
of a passive locomotive
I am standing at the station
soul reeling in the wake that is surely yet to come.

The grand scheme of things
marks me as a small creature,
low to the ground,
forced
like steam from the sewer
into the cold hard glare of an expectant Monday morning…