Nowhere, slow

The spent tea bag stapled at the top,

the icicles dripping on a Saturday afternoon

freed from any thought of what time it could be,

spread out like a soft cheese with hair

unwashed, snow with nowhere

to go, nothing we don’t have

we need

About pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in poetry, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Nowhere, slow

  1. ksbeth says:

    it’s all right there

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I don’t know why ‘stapled at the top’ got to me but it did. I can’t imagine why.


Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.