the plumes of smoke in frozen gentility puff from the chimney
autumnal tufts of filtering trees lit yellow as if in late life sun
the viewer never certain from where the light comes
does it radiate from under the arched stone bridge
rendered soft with moss, an improbable fantasy
for us and the drunkard to stumble upon, he knows
the disappearing families pulled their thickest fabrics
over the buttery windows, he knows why
he tugs at the stray threads of his damp socks
he won’t stay long, they are aren’t convinced
he’s only here for respite, for rest, forest and he cracks
himself up like a thick layer of ancient paint, when it’s time
and god knows when, he’ll bundle his ruffles
gather his mumbles within his reddish voice and flow
away from the idyllic swan-poisoned waters, assured that
for a moment, he made the picture
more perfect with him in it and nobody saw it
The Sunday Whirl: Wordle 773
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