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Beth Vieira

Cottage in Winter

The water boils over. Blurred window color onto the garden, like a Monet painting as he grew blind. Steam droplets suspended in the air, swirling. Smoky like the lapsang souchong tea I'm about to brew. Blurred window color onto the garden. It would be that way without the tea. The rain pounds this little cottage. Its tin corrugated roof vibrates the measure of the storm. Last night I didn't sleep. It kept me company like a talkative lover with some urgency or other. Blurred windows. My eyes squint through their tiredness.

one sparrow
still singing
for the sun

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