Frost now sparkles on the grass. A lone crow circles
overhead, a black swatch floating frigid as the air.
The season has turned. Virtual death is on the
heart once more. She feels a vise though she can't pinpoint where
in her scarred being. A weak sun has perched on the glass panes. She knows
the cold would wrap her every step.
Struggling on, halved and quartered, she is certain
this season would not be any different. Days would
drag on in routine exactness.
She glances at the clock and whirls around to the
shower in obedience to the tick of the minute hand.
Perfect attendance, perfect recording in the books,
perfect office manners-such rigidity to rules
keeps her the perfect prisoner, her own convict.
Sadness is her crime. She wallows in it. Her lake has
turned into a quicksand. She does not hope for someone
to pull her off the mire. She hopes instead that
like the leaves last night she would just disappear.