Tuesday, 7:32 a.m.
by Julia McPherson
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It's winter and the trees are
conspiring against me.
I step out into the blue morning light.
They lie in wait
with their evil stepmother fingers reaching
to grasp my wrist bone,
snag my hair,
breathe me in and
shroud me there
in the loneliness.
Dead leaves
all gone from autumn's sigh--
a brittle memory of green.
Jealous that I walk
surefootedly under open sky.
I hate the black and white of it all.
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