feral woman

the feral moonlight

lightly touches the cat

but what of the aging feral woman

holding tightly-grasped flowers

drinking from glass branches

in late november


withered voiceless flowers

pulled loose from stones

fragmented shadows, lingering

the forecast, snow


one day her heart stops

that’s what happens

the thud

partially dispersed by echoes


transparent deep freeze

breaking news

loss, stillness

flashing lights

blankets too late


oh, hour


by mary ann blinkhorn