A shrinking man stands on an unbroken beach
the Florida sun an arm’s length away,
gnawing at the naked flesh of his ankles.
The heat of the day leeches a scene
from the corners of his mind
that never settles long enough to gather dust.

The day after they buried his wife
he turned cold,
and a deep snow grieved for him,
deprived him of his due anguish;
kept his keening at her graveside
from echoing through the sparse woods
like it should;
froze his tears;
hid the turned earth
that should have forced every eye of passerby
to sting at the indignation of death.

Sometimes he misses the dark pines,
neutral tones, the world in black and white. 
Tall palms will never be as reassuring as a stand of cedars.
Here, he is engulfed in pink stucco and Atlantic blue.

Sometimes the white sands fool him,

remind him of his last winter

when the sun hit a mantle of fresh snow,

just so…

and it strikes him blind to all but a memory.

09/19/2003

Author's Note: Procrastination is good. Embellishment is better. I wrote today, apparently they're ice-skating on the lakes in hell right now.

Posted on 09/19/2003
Copyright © 2025 Lacy D Phillips