C.M. Rivers

You slip outside, leave

the commotion behind.

Your pantlegs brush your thighs,  

it sounds like a downhill skier.

It’s not that you thrive on neglect,

just that you prefer your own

company to anyone’s.

You walk just long enough for roses

to bloom in your cheeks,

for all thought to be swept away

in a current of refreshment

before turning back as the first

snowflakes begin to fall.

You feel like them. You feel

like something ephemeral,

remarkable and ordinary

in the receding saffron glow.

The porch glides up

to greet you. A moment’s

pause, a hand on the doorlatch,

and you’re back.