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A low ceiling of sky sealed our horizons
whip-stitched by unpruned pines
sharp and useless as a grandmother’s spindles.
Now the lawn whirligig jeers at a tilt, 
no flowers call from frozen ground.

All beauties tarnish in the weathering gray,
crippled flowerpots offer bracken,
mossy basement stairwell yields a locked door,
threshold littered with leaf mold and mist,
the skeleton key lost long ago.

There was that garage sale you had:
the pewter, the china, the chipped statues.   
You overpriced everything, also forgiveness.
The house was packed, we moved that spring.
We all moved on.


Christi Krug’s poetry has appeared in everything from religious magazines to self-help books to comic book anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and recently served as creative resident at North Cascades Institute. Four of her nonfiction stories have previously appeared in Halfway Down the Stairs.

© 2021, Christi Krug

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