Perspective by Sydney Lea

I stand unmoving. It feels like a rite.

Perspective

by Sydney Lea

The morning world looks pale as old flannel,
and from here inside appears dead silent.
I'm not sure why this should feel like a gift. 
It rouses my inner paganism,
if that's in fact the word I'm looking for.
The stove keeps us warm right through the winter,
even the windows in some small measure,
and so when a flake of snow drifts sidelong
against the glass it dies in the instant.

A pan with ashes to dump in my hand,
I stand unmoving. It feels like a rite.
Outdoors, caught short by the cold, our crab tree
shows fruit that didn't get time to ripen.
I could forge a metaphor if I chose,
memento mori or some kindred thing, 
but I balk at that. It feels too easy.
Just past our ridge lies the long wide river.
Under ice, it rolls right on as ever. 

First published in Plume (September 2025)