One clove of garlic, chopped,

sautéed in olive oil,

a handful of spinach leaves

steamed, rice noodles boiled.


An Arctic freeze

settles on the city

too dry for snow,

the ground frozen and stiff.


A squirrel walks the top

of the fence toward the firs

looking for something tasty,

finding little.


Place setting for one

at the table, a vase of roses

flown in from Chile,

dark now at every window.




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