prompt: writing to a season

A Season Not a Pot

“My difficulty is that I am writing to a rhythm and not to a plot.” – Virginia Woolf, letter to Ethel Smyth, 1930

I yellowed my bones.

Flash! Saffron drip. The water hisses past the lip.

This poem is not an apology.

I’m not sorry I miss myself.

Life has been less hungry lately.

I make less rice in the pot.

Who knows if there’ll be need for leftovers?

The street basil is moaning, and I pick the last of it for seasoning.

I take only what I need.

Even herbs have seasons of take, but that is past now.

Winter is birthing. I hope it screams on arrival.

The cold is empty. I want warning. I want basil in my basmati.

Did I take too much? Did I make too much?

Who will be here to eat this tomorrow?



I followed this poem as a prompt because I had no idea what to write about today. πŸ™‚ How has your writing or reading gone this month so far?