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!
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