Silhouette

 

Midday's sun lifts to touch the faint horizon,

a pale discus rolling slowly along,

then gone. The lonely writer, limned in crimson

at her window desk, her ego strong,

her spirits cold as the icy scene before her,

 

shakes her head, breathes deeply, turns blind

from winter as snow begins its feathery fall;

The heater roars its warmth like an angry hind;

the writer a silhouette, framed in a timber wall;

the poetry of silence.

 

Chris Hubbard

2016