These days, I feel I’m what’s left
of winter, crusts of it on
the window sill,
or snow in the planter by the steps,
hidden from the sun.
Or behind the screen door,
shut tight, rattled
by a breeze each time
it opens an inch.
These days, I feel I’m what’s left
of winter, crusts of it on
the window sill,
or snow in the planter by the steps,
hidden from the sun.
Or behind the screen door,
shut tight, rattled
by a breeze each time
it opens an inch.
