Novella

Just a short story for now,

a small cup of tea,

the sound of the rain,

Chekhov sends Anna to the seaside,

Tolstoy throws Anna under a train.

Just a quick novella,

a vignette,

a place to dip my pen and my toes,

this poetry,

is killing me,

give me the stability of prose.

There is narrative in silence,

penned in transparent ink,

syllables that reveal themselves,

with a bit more time to think.

Words from the head are like an arrow,

they spring forth quick and light,

words from the heart come stumbling forth,

and never land quite right.

-

My favored season is ending,

the world is thawing and waking,

cold fronts and warm fronts are shaking hands,

a turbulent storm in the making.