Your mother said

there is beauty in the brown, that time
between the green and the snow’s gleam.
I didn’t believe it. Life was a meadow
of wildflowers. we could pick any color, forge
any path. Now, places have been seen, things
done. We’re waiting for winter. After a simple
supper, we pour a decaf, drape wool throws from
a distant trip to Wales over our laps, crack open
books. Our slippers peak out from footrests
of matching recliners. The TV sits abandoned,
mocking us with its giant empty eye. Jazz,
a musical genre we can agree on, sometimes
filters through the room, but mostly the only
sounds are pages flipping, the fire hissing
in the grate. We are old people in training.
Whoever thought this would be enough.

Published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue 66 Fall 2025