i.
Tulips with the scent
of hyacinth, so
unexpected each
time I pass, sweetly
disorienting.
ii.
The throat’s vibrato,
singing a light phrase
intentionally
melismatic, and
by chance, staccato.
iii.
After salt, tap water
tastes almost sweet, still
like nothing, flavored
with memory more
than with anything.
iv.
From the living room,
giggles (cat like tread,
is everybody
here?), the playlist faint
and set on repeat.
v.
Against the white wall
the black angel and
the angel’s shadow,
the edges blurring
and elongated.
Rosefire Rising 
These seem like good memories as one contemplates the end of life.
I’m thinking of it as a rubric for whenever I’m struggling to write. But … didn’t help me tonight.
I am pleased you have been able to write again this year
Thank you, Bridget, I am grateful to be able to write a bit. It’s harder than usual, and I’m not succeeding as many days as I wish, but I’m here, as much as I can.