When the orange yolk cracks behind the trestles of the forest,
And the soft pink air has folded crisply over the billow of our breath
To be stacked into a drawer for the night, we will put on the kindling.
A leather basket sits tucked beside the fireplace, filled with
Chopped wood dried through from sun-soaking, waiting atop
A yellowing stack of newspaper so crisp it will turn to powder when
Folded into the fireplace; the smoke trickling up past the red bricks
And into the night sky carry the stories of writers pressed between
The parchment: years after the first writing he sits alone with a cup of
Tea pressed between his palms, pouring over the third draft of his novel
She washes her hands in the sink, mindlessly pumping the soap for the
Third time as her children play outside and her laptop sits closed upstairs
They lean over to turn out the light, they live somewhere new now and the
Curve of their spine searches for the familiarity of an old plaster wall
Stories twirl over onto the highway where a family drives, parents in front
And three small children sleeping soundly in the backseat. The windows are
Cracked open, they’ve been driving for a while and a thin sheen of sweat
Sits softly on foreheads and chests and the father inhales – pine needles,
Cold air, and smoke of a nearby fireplace —the GPS ticks on, 11:43 pm arrival.
Chloe Bausano is an emerging poet from New York City who recently graduated from Cornell University with a degree in English Literature. She has been published by Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Eris & Eros, and twice by Cathexis Northwest Press. She strives to capture feelings of love and nostalgia through her work.