shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Linda Conroy

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In England, Late October

Fog falls around the chimney stacks, and slides
in hollows flanked by houses and oak trees
while muting sound and wrapping all inside;
a time of ash-grey smell of rain and smoke.
I'm shelling peas I picked before the frost
etched patterns on the window pane. I'll bake
some red potatoes, heat up last night's roast
and bring in coal before the evening fades.
It's time to sit beside the fire, knitting socks,
reading from a stack of library books. Time
for one last look outside before I turn the lock
and close the drapes, to keep the cold of autumn
out. I'll wind the clock lest time evaporate
when sleep seduces and my mind escapes.