Stay a Spell The cicadas kissed the curves of my ears, pale fingers fighting nothing but air and the thinness of wings. Chop, shift, I split the wood again chop, shift, the butterscotch chips catching in the frays of an old knitted coat. Skillet fried dinner blends to skillet fried dessert— What was that? A rustle of leaves yields sunny-sides filled with shell and the squirrel chuckles up his chestnuts. He picks his shells with ease. The warm fire deepens the orange of my hair and blushes the apples of my cheeks. Oxygen and black smoke trickle through my lungs— carbon dioxide bleaching the fumes clear. We need more tinder. My eyes meet a doe dancing behind the flame. Thin ankles locked straight to the left and chin whiskers quirked to the right; she stood firm. Who was I to stay a spell in her living room? I didn’t even take off my shoes.
About the Author: Hannah Bagley lives and attends the University of North Georgia in Dahlonega, Georgia. An English literature major and German minor, she has also been published in The Chestatee Review. Hannah draws inspiration from her upbringing in Southern Appalachia and its rich history. She plans to continue poetry in the pursuit of nature, life, and expression of the human experience.
Image Credit: Winslow Homer “Campfire” (1880) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 