Author: John Savoie

Installment 39 rings in that season of suspension, that restless waiting between winter high spirits and the still-distant return of life.   *** My Back Pages One cricket trills somewhere within the bookshelf like the fan belt slipping on a ‘74 Maverick idling at the red light in the rain. *** Morning  Fog Last night, driving alone, snug within my purring dome of darkness tinged with glass, green dials, and my own breath, I called out your name as I had done a thousand times before, but this time I startled at my voice, no passion, no desire, just syllables filling silence, the way commercials play on late- night tv long after the sale has come and gone, still urging the perfect gift— synthetic yule logs that burn for hours, a diamond pendant she’ll cherish forever, special store hours, early and late, for these two days only, some time last year  . . . . . .  and here, this sodden morning, the last patches of snow dissolve in fog dripping from swollen twigs, spattering black puddles where geese thwack their feet, smear green shit, strut their smudgy wings, hiss and honk through thrusting throats, savage with the first scent of spring *** Photo © Matthew...