A crowd of limbs,
hollow branches bumping shoulders.
We forgot the push of strangers,
the scratchy reverberation of a recital,
until we heard the aria of the Starling,
shrieks amidst footstep’s frothy white ale,
our pace like clinks. A hopeful toast,
sips with viridian undertone swallowed
with swigs of amber twigs,
a standing ovation for spring to begin.
My soul stretches today
as winter weakens,
giving up muddy ground.
Smokeless chimney overtaken
by a tall pine’s alerted quills.
In the nighttime, nameless creatures
scurry off the apex of our bedroom.
They are more lively than we,
huddled in kleptothermy,
waiting out the
white calendar of winter.
I fulfill my itinerary locally.
My back deck is Budapest,
ancient city of balustrade bridges,
algae green planks, the Buda Castle.
Inside, the pantry is Sicily;
Amid the curves of canisters,
my putto son, pulls down sweets.
His flourishing eyes
the highlight of my pilgrimage.
K.F. Hartless (she/her) is a free-spirited fiction writer and word trapeze artist. When she's not juggling her career as a literacy specialist, she's preparing her latest death-defying act on the keys. Recently, she's been published by Horns and Rattles Press, 365tomorrows, Luna Station Quarterly, and Last Girl's Club. Check out her Yard Sale of Thoughts for fresh finds.