shot glass
title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Annie Stenzel


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No snow outside my window

(a golden shovel, after Emily Dickinson)

For just how long have I been thinking, day after day, about dying?
Whose dying? Is this another trick question I can't answer? Or is
this what my doctor likes to call, in her soothing way, just a
function of the aging process
, like the mysterious itches, or the wild
perturbations my heart muscle manifests at night?

Here at the turn of the year, creeping back toward longer and
longer days, I still hunker down each morning before a
page that starts out empty, then gathers words for some new
message, or maybe just a signpost pointing at the end of my road.