Every few days something in me ends
A final crescendo then death
There are husks in a corner of my room stacks of them
I don't collect things they accumulate on their own
Time expressing itself in layers of matter
Creatures drop their delicate shells adding nutrient to Life's return
I'm shedding selves as I go
Never knew I had so many
me me me me me me me
It's a song but then not one
More of a pattern gone awry over and over a dying canary
Then again always the same poison reaction
Toxic fume too late detected where does it seep in from
The curl and swoon the dip into afternoon
Evening comes he finds me sitting upright in my pearlescent skin
Still unfinished
The old me sloughed against the wallboard
YOU ARE READING
The Smell of Snow
PoetryFrom my home on a tiny island, I smell snow as it begins to fall on the mountains across Baynes Sound. A smell that goes directly up your nostrils with a slight hint of metal or ozone, a bit like refrigerant. And of course I love to confirm my sense...
