Welcome to the Writer's Place: Solitary Grave

Rust freezes
on the dented fender
of a Chevy pick-up,
Dried blood, flakes,
swirls, and catches
on a frosted web of glass,
strung across the windshield.
A glossy film shadows
my brother's eyes,
a flashback of ice spitting
at the car, thunders
against his skull.
Black against the torrent
of white, he stumbles
to my grave,
and plants three crimson roses
in the snow.

Mikel Hanson (hmikel@uswest.net)

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