Another grey morning.
Only bare trees
break up the middle ground
between snow and sky.
As usual, I take a bowl of coffee upstairs.
As usual, snow begins to fall lightly.
Small sounds occur, like the fan, the refrigerator,
J. placing his cup on the tray, shushing the cat
who is whining for something more.
Shh, he says, then more sharply, whsht!
Looking up from my book to another dull sky
the wish for light, real sunlight,
the kind that opens cracks,
that makes wet shine and damp gleam,
radiance even the coldest rock absorbs
rears up wildly, rushes into my throat.
That’s what I say to myself then, whsht!