Member-only story
A House Elf Speaks to Jack Frost
A Poem
I see you out there in late Autumn,
after the pumpkins have turned
from green to golden orange,
when there are only a few tomatoes left
hanging on the vine,
touching notches on leaves,
wilting blades of grass,
painting white over iron fences
that lock me tight in my home, my prison.
Each day the dirt on the floor scatters
over boards I swept yesterday,
dishes pile in sinks crusted with
morning’s eggs and toasted crumbs.
Soiled laundry laughs at the rag
tied over my waist, these warm clothes
worn only by the ones allowed to leave,
left fallen in piles on floors, sleeves hanging
over baskets, the sweet onion smell
of their body odor gagging my watering eyes
as I scrub every stain.
Oh, you who dance in the cold!
Can you not stay away just a moment longer?
You who touch the tips of your pointed
icy blue fingers to window panes,
painting feathered stars and beautiful illusions…
