By: Yash Seyedbagheri

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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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