01.24.2023.0720
When I stopped drinking,
the desire to write poems was gone.
Remember this to be true.
The black dog still waits in the distance
not far from the fence.
I watch it and open the sliding windows
to let the winter air run amuck
through my kitchen door
engulfing me with bites
of the freezing Midwest.
I stand alone watching.
Waiting.
The black dog does not run.
It does not bark.
We both stare at the empty field
in solitude as a snowstorm approaches.
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Other stories by Dulce Maria Menendez
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This is so beautiful. It blooms.
Beautiful. Frightening. sad.
The chill of solitude.*
I love the symbol of the black dog here.
It is as if the black dog is the poem
you are waiting for but cannot write!
Lovely!
Thank you everyone.