The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is Winter Tale. I confess, I wrote this sometime back and it kind of got lost in the shuffle. I’ve made major tweaks here.
Icicles hang like spindly glass fingers from frozen gutters.
Snow blankets things like the mower, the good summer Adirondacks. Frozen in time. A long time ago.
This is my view, from the kitchen window.
Where I am frozen, too. Hands on sticky tile, covered in dirty dishware.
What’s the point?
Boot prints still echo in the snow, up the path to the mailbox.
Where the envelope came.
Not so long ago? I can’t remember now.
I just know that this view is getting monotonous. Cold.
And the handgun’s nickel-metal finish is now warm against my hip.
No Laughing Gas Matter - Friday Flash
57 minutes ago