This poem originally appeared in Fall Lines - a literary convergence volume VII-VIII
Premonition: January 2, 2020
by Ellen Malphrus
A castover hush of a day.
White tulips bend
to where there is no sun
as the dog naps
and the cat naps harder.
Little winter birds flit and flash,
awakened now from their own
long morning quiet
as a flicker drills at an oak.
The low growl of a Sunday plane
drifts back into silence and
the miles-away road buzz
goes entirely un-hummed.
I have lit a candle against the bleakness
but why it seems like gloom
I cannot say.
Here on the cusp of the oncoming
year of perfect vision
maybe I’m afraid of
what I might see,
what I might not see.
Today I’d rather lie here in the porch swing
with my eyes closed
and listen to the dog snore,
the heedless woodpecker laughing.
