Lilies The wind brushes through the leaves on the trees manipulating them to wave naked bodies dancing against the grey canvas. The rain tumbles down getting lost in the rush of air cold from the mountain a sigh that never runs out of breath. The windows are pimpled with uneven, translucent drops nature’s avant-garde painting as if a child has pushed away a splattered spoonful of medicine. I see myself in those drops the gentle curve of my lashes marble eyes staring back the long sweep of my nose the dip where my lip meets chin. I am so small in it the drop that lingers on the glass gently falling to the edge like lilies wilted near the end of a funeral.
Jennifer Novotney holds an M.A. in English from Northern Arizona University. Her work is forthcoming in Buddhist Poetry Review and has appeared in English Journal, Poetry Quarterly, Unbroken Journal, and The Vignette Review, the latter for which she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. In 2014, she won the Moonbeam Children’s Book Award for her debut novel, Winter in the Soul. She grew up in Los Angeles, CA and lives in North East Pennsylvania with her family where she teaches English and creative writing.
Amethyst Review 