By: Yash Seyedbagheri
A Lone House On A Winter’s Evening
pink and lavender mingle with banks of snow,
hush of nothingness teases across endless white fields,
as I walk without end, alone, as usual
toward a house on the hill, a rustic cabin, it seems
not a voice, a laugh within earshot, eaten by nothingness
and up on the hill lights flicker from
lone house, a rustic cabin I’ve seen so many nights before
butter-colored lights alone through a cathedral of pines
someone astride the world
and yet so far apart from it this winter’s night
how I wish I could meet that lone soul
on the hill
we could speak of so much
filling this hush of nothingness
with words and communion
speaking of needs while watching a movie
or in the still of night, when the sky
reminds us of vast spaces
a bed too large for a soul
we could speak of the relief of speaking
I walk, walk toward that house
but the snow seems to carry on and on
across the fields, feet weighed down
from nights of walking alone
the hush of nothingness so vast
that house seems so far, far away, hill steeper
is that deliberate
the butter-colored light not a sanctuary, but a searchlight
on strangers’ souls?
will nothingness eat me up this winter’s evening?
Bio: Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction.
His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.
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