Peter Yovu

January

The roses I got for our anniversary have wilted, just a little, but enough. My wife has requested, with a look that tells me how much she has loved them, that I throw them out now. They’re in the way. I take the roses from their vase, go outside. It’s dark. About zero. It’s been snowing all day. Easiest thing to do is walk to the end of the drive, cross the road, and toss them into the field opposite the house. I walk carefully. There is ice under the snow. Car coming. Just one. Headlights taking me in as I walk. What a strange sight it must be: a man carrying flowers in the freezing cold, at night, no flashlight, no moon, approaching the road. What is he doing? What on earth is he doing?

down a dark alley
the stranger strikes a match, 
his momentary bird

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About the Author

Peter Yovu grew up on Staten Island and has lived in Vermont since 1967. His latest book, shine shadow (Red Moon Press, 2024), features haiku, haibun, and longer poems.

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