Je Ne Sais Quoi


The essence of Christmas past teases

like that spice in a stew you can’t name.

Eyes closed to deaden senses,

deep breath for recognition…

but it is over-seasoned now.

Those fiery touches,

miscalculated measures —

I am
reduced and rendered bitter.

Words: ©2015, Jen Payne. Image: The Window of the Poet, Pyotr Konchalovsky, 1935

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