wish you were here
it was the dead of winter
and those flowers we once shared
bloomed in the back of my mind
I’ve kept anything but busy
self-isolated in my mystery cottage
placed perfectly atop cedar hill
unable to set foot outside
for fear of freezing to death
days turned into nights
nights well lit by candlelight
open books scattered throughout
sonnets recited by dead poets
their voices reverberating
as shadows against the walls
early morning birdsong
slipped past single-pane windows
like a long lost lullaby
putting out the very last flame
and folding fast my tired eyes
december two thousand twenty
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