By Christopher Palmer
Waiting for the bus I
Turn to face the freezing rain,
Hear the quick-low tapping on my glasses.
Gentle but sharp, not moving too quickly.
Tendrils of a distant fire hangs at eye level,
I think it’s pine.
Spring-actioned bear trap teeth:
Returned to another winter,
Turning to face the forest, somewhere
in the distance where nothing moves.
Raindrops congregate in clay bowls.
Quick-low tapping, overflowing with
Pinewood’s sweet wine.
Who knows how old these dirt roads: patted-down
tricycle tracks, hearts carved in tree bark.
Turning to face the house I grew up in.
Homemade porch door, shaky doorknob
Un-repaired, opens into the dining room.
Knocking, entering: questions come
Quickly. Gently delivered and sharp to the touch,
Voices carry like wide wind.
Always the smell of the wood stove creeping in:
Must be pine.
Christopher Palmer is a poet and fiction writer based out of Portland, Maine, as well as a lifelong New Englander. Their poetry focusses primary on synesthetic experiences, pulling inspiration from the seasons, intricacies of the human senses, and their relationships to memories.