poetry by j matthew waters

the death of late december

and so it has arrived
in all its glorious finality
slowing all good things down
some to an inevitable halt

no winter is the same
each returning with an agenda
colt forty-five concealed at the hip
cradling the rifle like a baby

setting traps on ponds & streams
frozen solid to the naked eye
encouraging & enticing
there is nothing left to fear

indeed you’ve reached
the end of the line [again]
exposed but not exhausted
you search for another way out

january two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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