Member-only story
THREE BLIND MICE
Jan 2, 2022
The smell of newly mown grass
deserts us in the winter blast,
stark-naked trees
occasionally glimmer
in the moonlight;
now the solstice is passed
we move slowly back to November
in the dimming of the day.
Starved of sunlight
we stagger into
a year we know nothing of,
the real unknown unknown,
like three blind mice
we scurry away
hoping, just hoping,
that the strangled scream
and the carving knife
are just a sad-bad dream.
