Snow: Infiltrating our lives. Flurries
build into glacial walls and even beside cozy
Chimney fires I feel those unrelenting flakes
Compiling outside. Suffocating. Four months of—
Breathe in— Solitude &
the cold chokes my lungs-trachea-larynx and I am
Alone. . . Alone
In the backyard naked trees shiver and their limbs
Are too short to wrap around themselves. The howl
Of a forlorn creature rings, unhindered, and an expanse of white
Stretches. . .
Digression of a Dead Bird
The bird: reckless, foolish, diving towards
The window with abandon. This common colored
Creature, a dull mixture of brown and gray as though
God’s paintbrush had been soiled by cheap dyes,
Perhaps realizes its simplicity among an otherwise
Divine world. Suicide:
The glass does not shatter, the broken
Body shudders in final exhalation,
Whispered secret between us.
Brina Platt spent her childhood in Rhode Island. As a teenager she moved to Wyoming, PA and has continued to live in the northeast region of Pennsylvania. She currently studies at the University of Scranton and majors in English. She is a staff member on the University’s literary magazine, Esprit.