I watch how your shadow
falls dark
across crisp snow.

I’ll speak
when I puzzle it out --
an inkblot
revealing subtle changes,
a revised version of your love.

Your silent mouth
breathing away from me
into cupped palms,
your waist bent
into wind’s hoarse whispers.

Daffodils lose
their dice game with winter.
Darkness falls, doesn’t it?

Still Life

Fat fountain
becomes tilted jug,
spills water turned
to wine by evening light
across concrete tablecloth.

Glass towers are bottles sparkling
with reflections.
Sphere of setting sun,
an unpeeled orange.

No hand disturbs
the scene where silence slithers
between dishes set
for one. From the window,
landscape is still life.

All Poetry by Judy Clem